


Two Hearts

by real_live_angelface



Series: The Stars to Bring You Home [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bullying, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Cliffhangers, Complete but posting in weekly installments, Drama & Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Implied Underage Canoodling of Some Kind or Another, M/M, No Underage Sex, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Alternating, Period-Typical Homophobia, Playlist, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Slice of Life, The Ten Words from Captain America: Civil War, The usual bouquet of U.S. English bad language words, in Part 2 though so be forewarned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:07:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25232896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/real_live_angelface/pseuds/real_live_angelface
Summary: In 1945, Captain America and Sergeant Barnes lead their elite unit of fighters, later known as the Howling Commandos, on a high-risk mission to capture Nazi scientist Arnim Zola from a moving train bound for Hydra Headquarters. In the course of the mission, both the Captain and his Sergeant fall from the train and are lost to the deep mountain winter.Ten memories, ten words:Longing, Rusted, Seventeen, Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign, Homecoming, One, Freight CarSafe in the frozen embrace of the mountains, those memories belonged only to them, the span of two lives, the full measure of two hearts beating together.***This is a slice of life story that details the ten memories from Bucky's past which could have been used by HYDRA to program the Winter Soldier, if he had been captured. Canon divergent historical AU. Part 1 lays the groundwork, Part 2 follows Steve and Bucky back home to Brooklyn after the war.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: The Stars to Bring You Home [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828018
Comments: 12
Kudos: 41





	1. Intro, 1945

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so happy to finally begin posting this fic! I've been working on part one for the past two years.
> 
> Part One is completely written and Part Two is in-progress. The "cliffhangers" tag is here b/c this first part most definitely ends with a cliffhanger. More information about general plot arc can be found in the series description.
> 
> Posting schedule will be one chapter a week, posted on Sundays.
> 
> Many, many, many thanks to my betas and irl friends: [cranberry_bar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranberry_bar/pseuds/cranberry_bar) and [snycock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/snycock).
> 
> This fic is accompanied by an historically-accurate playlist, which can be found on Spotify: [Part 1: Two Hearts](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4OYYPqkYjUXZudsYRv5mXe?si=AJMpxjOiRwuoxqmP6V-D4A). 
> 
> I'm working on making a Youtube playlist, too, for people who don't have Spotify.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the playlist: It's Been A Long, Long Time - Harry James & His Orchestra, vocals: Kitty Kallen, 1945

Steve didn’t mean to fall from the train. There wasn’t any time to think of it. His body simply followed where Bucky’s went, without his mind having a say in it at all. It was almost as if they were actually connected in the way that his ma always said. Connected at the hip. Or more accurately, connected from heart-to-heart.

The wind tore at the exposed skin of his face, stealing the breath from his lungs with its violent chill. It seemed he fell forever, through an interminable whiteness, his stomach threatening to rise up out through his mouth, one thought stretching out in his mind.

Bucky.

The train had been moving so fast, there was no way Steve could follow Bucky. He simply found his own resting place in the snow, body crashing, bones breaking, the impact wiping out his vision for one long moment before he glimpsed a terrible brightness, sun glaring off snow, and then the darkness closed back in.

He dreamed of cold.

_A snowball breaking against his face. Bucky, stormy-eyed and fierce, brushing ice crystals from his hair, running a hand down his cheek, soothing the sting._

_Curling against Bucky in the bitter cold of their apartment, the furnace having gone out again. And then, warm, warmer, skin against skin._

_The sensation of snow-melt soaking his feet through the cracked soles of his boots. Waking up in the middle of the night to find Bucky in the kitchen, drunk and cursing under his breath as he struggled to fix them._

_The cold that settled hard in his chest the first time he saw Bucky in uniform, miserable and ashamed that he couldn’t get into the Army himself._

_Burrowing down into the snow the night before, choking down the feeling that this time, this mission, would be their last. Dread seeping into his body with the cold, until Bucky stepped up next to him in the silence of the night and pressed warm lips to his forehead._

He dreamed of Bucky’s heart beating, somewhere out there in the frozen waste. It tapped in time with his own. Double heartbeat, double life. He would feel if it stopped. He would know, and then he would follow. This was probably where they were always destined to end. Buried in ice together. Lost to everyone but each other.


	2. Longing, 1931

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve and Bucky are thirteen and fourteen and they're best friends and Feelings are a bit confusing...
> 
> From the playlist: On the Sunny Side of the Street – Ted Lewis, 1930

Winter has been terrible this year, and Steve has been sick so often that Bucky has gotten into the habit of stopping by after school to drop off his homework. Today, Steve is rolled up in a cocoon of blankets, happy to offer snide remarks in reaction to Bucky's stories about his latest misadventures at school. They only met just last year, but they're already thick as thieves. Bucky is the most interesting person Steve’s ever met.

"You want to stay for dinner, Bucky?" his ma asks, peeking through the door. She's already changed into her nurse's uniform.

"Sure!" Bucky says, grinning.

"It's not going to be fancy," she adds. "Just soup and sandwiches because I'm off for work soon."

"That's all right, Mrs. Rogers.”

When she leaves the room, Bucky pats the section of blanket where Steve’s feet are buried.

“I ought to go help her.”

"Brown-noser," Steve rasps, though he’s pleased as punch that Bucky is so nice to his ma. He wishes he could do more to help her instead of being sick all the time. He can hear their conversation out in the kitchen, and Bucky sounds so polite and obedient. He wonders what his ma would think if she knew what he was really like.

"Do you need help with anything?" Bucky was asking.

"You're a good kid, Bucky. How about you take care of delivering Steve's soup before it gets too cold?"

"Sure thing."

"And call your mother to let her know where you are. You can use the party line."

Steve settles back under the covers, shivering. It’s hard not to get angry at himself for all the time he’s spent in this stupid bed lately, but at least since Bucky started coming ‘round, he hasn’t been obsessing over it as much.

He hears the front door open and close as Bucky returns from making his call. Steve’s stomach rumbles in anticipation of the imminent feast, his hunger finally starting to awaken after not eating much for the past couple of days.

“Go on and eat in there,” his ma says. “I'm sure Steve will be glad for the company. I'm just going to gulp and run off to work, anyway."

"Thanks, Mrs. Rogers," Bucky says, and then there’s a scuffling sound. "Don't worry, Mrs. Rogers. Didn't spill a drop."

Steve smiles at the sound of his mother’s laughter. He sits up as Bucky walks into the room and sets the tray down on the end of the bed. Steve watches as he carefully lifts the bowl that's got a little less in it to hand over.

"Hey, I'm the sick one here," Steve says.

"The other one's filled up too high. Didn't want you to get burned."

"Yeah, you expect me to believe that," Steve says, but he grins at Bucky as he takes the bowl from his hands.

Bucky settles back down on the end of the bed, eating carefully over the tray, watching as Steve ignores his spoon completely, gulping back his soup directly from the lip of the bowl.

“What are you lookin’ at?” Steve asks, as he scrapes up some leftover noodles with his fingers.

“I gave you a spoon, didn’t I?”

Steve leans forward and grabs a sandwich, burrowing back under the covers with it.

“Steve!” Bucky says. "You're gonna get crumbs all over your sheets.”

“So?”

"Then I won’t be able to come over ever again because your ma'll say I'm a bad influence."

Steve laughs. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

When Bucky doesn’t answer, he peeks out from under the covers. Bucky looks genuinely worried.

“Hey,” Steve says. “Don’t worry about it. Come on, you can do it, too. Bring your sandwich over here.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” Steve says. “Come on. Or are you chicken?”

“Hah!” Bucky grabs his sandwich and wiggles under the covers. “Call me chicken now.” He takes a huge bite, making a silly face as he chews it, but Steve is too floored by the revelation of Bucky lying right there next to him to react. Bucky’s warm. Warm as summer. Steve wants to move in closer, but he’s afraid of what Bucky might think of that.

Bucky grins. “Take a picture, Rogers. It’ll last longer.”

Steve’s still too caught up in the moment, taking in the freckles across Bucky’s nose, the gray-blue of his eyes, almost as if it’s the first time he’s seeing him. He doesn’t dare look at his mouth. Bucky’s grin is fading, his expression growing puzzled. Steve reaches out and snatches the sandwich from his hand.

“Hey,” Bucky says, trying to snatch it back.

“Hey, yourself,” Steve says, taking a huge bite.

“You’re getting your germs all over my sandwich,” Bucky says.

Steve hadn’t thought of that.

“Sorry,” he says. He can feel his face flushing now.

Bucky’s pout melts into a dazzling smile. “Well, at least this probably means you’re on the mend, if you’re finally getting your appetite back.”

* * *

Steve gets sick again the following month, so Bucky does the same thing as always and brings him his homework after school. He’s sitting on the bed at Steve’s feet, like he always does when he visits, fiddling with a loose thread at the edge of one of the blankets.

“Geez, listen to this,” Steve says, his voice muffled underneath the mound of blankets he has pulled up over his head. “‘My love is as a fever, longing still for that which longer nurseth the disease...’”

“What are you reading?” Bucky asks, wrinkling his nose.

“Shakespeare. The neighbor dropped it off when he heard I got another cold. I can always hear him typing in the middle of the night.”

“Don’t you have enough reading to do for school?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, pushing the poetry book out from under the covers and toward Bucky. “Will you read some of these to me first, though?”

“Poetry?” Bucky asks, opening the book. It falls right open to the same page. _My love is as a fever, longing still…_ It makes him feel funny to read it. He doesn’t quite get it, and yet, something deep inside of him lights up in recognition.

“You know what I’m longing for?” Steve asks. “Springtime. Sun. An end to this stupid cold.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “Me, too. It’s boring out there without you.”

"I'm off to work, boys," Mrs. Rogers says, in the doorway. “When does your mother want you home, Bucky?"

"Um, she didn't say."

"Well, let's say 7 o'clock, all right? Steve's still getting over his cold. He needs to rest."

"Okay."

"Not that we don't appreciate you coming by. I'm sure Steve gets pretty bored being stuck here with just his mother for company."

"Ma," Steve says, his head popping out from under the covers. "When have I ever said that?"

"Doesn't mean you weren't thinking it, kid."

Steve scrunches up his nose in response.

"See you again soon, Bucky,” she says. “Have a good night."

He and Steve sit there, waiting through the sound of a coat rustling, the front door opening and closing. Once the lock clicks, they both relax. Mrs. Rogers is one of the best as far as parents go, but even then, no kid can help being sorta uptight when adults are around.

“Come on,” Steve says, pushing the covers back. “Keep me warm while you read me some of those poems.”

They've only done this a few times, mostly when Mrs. Rogers isn't home. Just lately it's started to bring on a lot of feelings that Bucky can't quite figure out. He hesitates a moment before getting under the covers next to Steve, book in hand.

"Find the ones that aren’t about being sick," Steve says, his voice sleepy and content.

Bucky wakes up to Sarah Rogers shaking his shoulder, backlit by the watery beginnings of dawn. He and Steve are all curled up and facing each other, Steve’s face mere inches from his own, their arms tangled up together, the Shakespeare book nestled between them. Bucky tries to move away, but it’s too late, she’s already seen them like this. She's got a strange look on her face, her eyebrows all disapproval, her mouth sorta smiling, but she looks a little sad, too.

"Bucky Barnes, what time did I tell you to go home?"

"I thought you meant seven in the morning?" Bucky offers her his most innocent smile. Next to him, Steve breaks into a snicker.

Mrs. Rogers closes her eyes. "I already called your mother. She was worried sick. She's coming over to pick you up."

That gets Bucky up fast enough, earning a disgruntled noise from Steve, who actually tries to pull him back into the bed.

"Steve, stop it," he hisses, slapping his hands away, mortally embarrassed.

Mrs. Rogers crosses her arms over her chest. "I think from now on, Bucky will have to come over only while I'm home."

"What?" Steve sits up abruptly, ready for a fight.

"No, Steven," she says firmly. "This is non-negotiable."

Bucky meets Steve's eyes, silently begging him to drop it before he makes it worse. His insides are roiling with shame. Steve looks furious, but thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut.

Mrs. Rogers looks over at Bucky. "All I told your mother is that you must have fallen asleep by accident. I didn't mention where I found you. Do you understand me, James?"

Bucky just stands there, frozen.

She sighs. "Oh, sweetheart. You don't ever have to be afraid of what I'll think. Just be careful of the rest of the world, okay?"


	3. Rusted, 1933

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve and Bucky prove their loyalty to each other for the first time.
> 
> From the playlist: Alone Together – Leo Reisman & His Orchestra, vocals: Frank Luther, 1932

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: Bullying related to period-typical homophobia (including derogatory language), blood and mild violence**

Bucky has a lot of friends. And girls who flutter all around him like butterflies. Which means that Steve usually walks home alone. It has been snowing all day and he was hoping for the warmth of Bucky’s company. But today Bucky is hanging at the corner with Donnie O’Neill and his gang, kicking drifts of snow, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders curled in against the cold. Steve thinks about walking past, to see if maybe Bucky will follow him after all. But it’s the wrong direction. And, anyway, Donnie has it in for him. Not that many people in this neighborhood are willing to stand up to Donnie O’Neill.

He turns away, tensing as a snowball skids across his path. The group behind him has erupted into chaos, in the way kids often did after a long school day. Bucky is laughing and throwing snowballs with the rest of them, the boys scattering out until Steve is in danger of being caught in the crossfire, too.

Steve doesn’t hesitate. It’s a snowball fight, so he can give as good as he gets, for once. He scoops up a snowball and lobs it at Gerry, who he had seen shoving Hannah out of the way in the halls earlier that day. He doesn’t even wait to see if he got his mark before forming another one, aiming this time for Jack’s face. Jack likes to spread nasty rumors about girls he thinks are ugly, or sapphic, or both.

Steve just barely registers the danger of Donnie aiming a throw in his direction before his head’s snapping back on his neck with the impact. The bastard packed a snowball with a core of ice, the snow breaking away across Steve’s cheekbone, ice slicing sharply across his skin. He doesn’t want to give in to the momentum, but he is stumbling back, anyway, his worn boot soles slipping across the ice. He’s going down, back slamming against the sidewalk, knocking the breath clean out of his lungs.

Everyone is laughing.

But no, someone is shouting, too.

Bucky skids to a stop above him. He peels off one of his gloves and kneels right there in the snow, brushing a hand over Steve’s hair. His eyes are wide and scared, and then, breathtakingly furious as he runs his fingers across Steve’s cheek, cool against the hot flush of pain. Steve blinks up at him, his ears ringing.

The other boys are quiet now, and Donnie’s voice tears into the silence, full of command.

“Jamie.”

Bucky ignores him, rummaging in his pocket and coming up with a handkerchief. He presses it against Steve’s cheek, the grey-blue of his eyes gone bright.

“Jamie,” Donnie says, more insistent. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Bucky ignores him still. Steve loves it. And he hates it. His head’s clearing now, and he realizes what this must look like. What Bucky is doing to both of them now, putting on a display like this. Bucky may be able to afford it, but Steve can’t. He slaps Bucky’s hand away, scooting back as he pushes himself up, ass dragging through melting snow.

Bucky watches him get to his feet, still kneeling. Donnie and the rest of the gang are fanning out behind him. Donnie’s lip is curling up. He’s got a smirk on his face, like he knows too much. Steve feels the cold flush through him.

Bucky stands up slowly, shamefaced now. There’s a choice to be made. Steve can feel it in his gut, and he’s scared. But he can’t leave Bucky standing there like that. He just can’t. So he lifts his chin, defiant and proud. If Bucky’s willing to give him more, he’ll take it. He’ll always take whatever Bucky’s willing to give.

Understanding blooms slowly, painfully, in Bucky’s eyes. Steve’s stomach twists into delicious knots. Bucky takes a breath and turns back to Donnie and the other kids.

“Well, fellas, it’s been fun,” he says, his voice light. “I’ll see you tomorrow at school.”

He turns away before anyone can answer. Steve doesn’t even bother to track Donnie’s reaction because Bucky is taking up all of his attention now, stepping up beside him, still a touch apologetic.

“Come on, Stevie,” he says. “I’ll walk you home.”

* * *

By the time spring rolls around, Bucky has almost forgotten what life was like before he started spending so much time with Steve. They spend practically every waking moment together. Attached at the hip, as Steve’s ma likes to say.

He’d spent the last two years prior to that rubbing elbows with Donnie O’Neill and his crew, rough-housing and acting like more of an asshole than he generally liked to, mostly to try and gain some sway with them, to see if he could get them to stop harassing other kids.

It had worked fine until this past winter, when he had been forced to admit that his friendship with Donnie and the others had always existed on borrowed time. He simply couldn’t be friends with people like that if he wanted to be friends with Steve. Life just wasn’t that neat and easy.

Since then, he’d been studiously ignoring that little voice in the back of his mind that kept insisting that Donnie would never let things go just like that.

And today, when he hears that dreaded voice call out behind him and Steve, he knows for sure he’s been a fool to ignore his instincts. Looks like the bill has finally come due.

“Hey, Donnie,” he says, turning to face the group that is catching up to them on the street. They’d all just turned off the avenue onto a dead end. It’s the perfect place for an ambush, which is why he and Steve usually avoided it. But today Steve had wanted to show him the kitten he’d seen when he’d walked past that morning before school. Of course, the street is empty now. Even the buildings above are silent, the curtained windows staring down at them impassively.

“Hiya, Jamie,” Donnie says, his nose wrinkling. “Still hanging around with the runt of the litter?”

“He’s my best friend,” Bucky blurts out, despite himself.

Donnie tilts his head to the side. “Best friend? Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Shut up,” Bucky says, his stomach clenching up.

“I always wondered about you, you know,” Donnie says, stepping forward. “You never had the stomach to be in our gang. Not really. So I gotta ask, have I been hanging around with a pansy this whole time?”

“Leave him alone,” Steve pipes up, his voice sounding thinner than usual. “Before I make you.”

“Big words from a fairy who’s about to get smeared down the street,” Donnie says.

Behind Donnie, a huge kid that Bucky hasn’t seen before cracks his knuckles, glaring. The rest of the kids are the usual bunch, but Bucky knows that none of them will cut him a break. Not anymore. He wants to kick himself for letting his guard down like that.

“Run,” Steve says, breathing hard, already raising his fists.

“What?” Bucky scoffs. “I ain’t going anywhere.”

“Aw, are you sweet on him, Barnes?” Donnie asks. “Should I break the news to Connie? You like leading her on just for fun or what?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky growls.

Donnie flicks his wrist, and look at that, he’s gotten his hands on a switchblade. Bucky’s fists clench of their own accord, even though he knows this isn’t a fight they will ever win. Not in a million years. They both have to run.

“Come on,” he says, grabbing Steve’s arm and practically dragging him down the street. He knows there is a tenement at the end of the row with a gate that connects back to Flushing Avenue. If they’re lucky, it’ll be unlocked.

“I can’t,” Steve says, wheezing now, but Bucky just pulls him harder, breaking into a sprint, the pounding of his heart matching the pounding of footsteps behind him.

They almost make it to the last building, but then Steve stumbles, bending over, his face bright red, his shoulders shaking with great gasping breaths.

“Fuck,” Bucky says, as Donnie catches up to them, knife blade flashing, the rest of the kids on his heels.

Bucky pushes Steve behind him and kicks out, catching Donnie right in the stomach before he can even take a first slice. Good thing the kid is more talk than action. Bucky slugs him good across the face, knuckles glancing off a sharp cheekbone, his vision narrowing down to Donnie’s falling body, metal reflecting light. He goes for the knife, trying to wrestle it from Donnie’s hand. Someone hits him hard in the ribs. He feels a crunch, a cascade of pain, something sharp slicing into his palm. He bites the inside of his lip against the whimper, staggering back to ward off the next blow that’s bound to be coming, but the kids are hesitating now, staring in fear over Bucky’s shoulder. Donnie scrambles to his feet, staggering slightly, wiping at the blood on his cheek.

“I...won’t...hesitate,” Steve says, the words punctuated by rasping breaths. “Don’t...test...me.”

Bucky looks over his shoulder, his heart dropping into his stomach at the sight of Steve standing with his feet planted wide, hands steady as he points a gun.

There’s blood dripping down Bucky’s fingers, his palm cut open on his right, knuckles split on his left. He glares into Donnie’s eyes, clenching his fists until the pain screams all the way up to his elbows, ghosts of it climbing up to his shoulder joints. Fat, red drops splatter onto the pavement below.

“Fuckin’ pansies,” Donnie says. He spits in Bucky’s direction, but even as he does it, he winces. “Come on, let’s get outta here before they try an’ turn us queer or something.”

Bucky watches the group meander away down the street, taking their sweet time and making a show of it, too, kicking over rubbish bins and making a general ruckus. His body twitches with every loud crash. His hands are throbbing now. He kinda feels light-headed. The big kid keeps looking back over his shoulder at them. Donnie never looks back at all.

Steve’s still struggling to catch his breath, so Bucky lifts a hand to rub his back like he always does, only it’s covered in blood. His other hand isn’t much better.

“You’re...hurt,” Steve manages between gasps.

“I’m fine, Stevie,” Bucky says, scared of the pained look on Steve’s face, the mottled flush of his skin. “Breathe for me, now, nice and slow.”

Steve nods, wobbling for a minute before leaning hard against Bucky’s side, inhaling slowly through his nose and out through his mouth, like his ma had taught him. Bucky does his best to stand strong for him, slinging an awkward arm around his shoulders, trying not to get his blood on anything.

“Bucky,” Steve says, after what feels like an eternity. The color has gone down on his face. He’s gonna be okay. “You’re really hurt.”

“Nah, 'm fine.” Bucky winces as he takes too deep a breath, his ribs aching in protest. “Where the hell did you get that gun?”

“Did one of those bastards break your ribs?”

“Steve, where the hell—”

“Aw, it’s my da’s old flare gun,” Steve says, shoving the gun back into his knapsack. “It’s rusted, too, but I guess they didn’t notice that.”

Bucky can’t afford to laugh right now. “You bluffed them with a rusty flare gun? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Lemme see your hands, Buck.”

“Nah, they’ll be fine,” Bucky says, but Steve grabs him by his shirt sleeve and drags him down an alley, pulling them both out of sight. The stench of stale piss intensifies in the dank space between buildings.

“What’s Connie gonna think, huh?” he asks lightly as he inspects Bucky’s hands, then presses a handkerchief to the cut on Bucky’s right palm. They’re both breathing through their mouths.

“I dunno,” Bucky says. He doesn’t like to be reminded of what a disingenuous bastard he is even in the best of times, and this is certainly not the best of times. So maybe it’s true, and he’s sorta sweet on his best friend. He hasn’t acted on it, has he? He’s doing the right thing, dating girls, doing what everyone expects a kid like him to do.

Steve touches his side and he shrinks away, hissing in pain.

“Aw, Buck, I’m sorry,” Steve says, his blue eyes worried. “We should get this looked at.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, just wanting to go home and bury himself in something stupid so he can forget how he’s feeling right now. Steve is standing too close, thin fingers still wrapped around Bucky’s hand. He’s a crazy bastard who chases away a bunch of bullies with a rusty flare gun that probably doesn’t even work. Even so, Bucky has known since the moment they met that he would never hesitate to protect this kid with everything he has. Even if it means getting all his ribs broken. Or his hands. Or anything, really.

“Thanks for standing up for me,” Steve says, gently turning Bucky’s hand over and knotting the handkerchief securely. It’s already pretty soaked through with blood. “Come on, don’t be stubborn about it. Let my ma bandage you up and check your ribs. We gotta make sure nothing’s outta place.”

“If I do this, then you have to promise to cooperate next time I try to patch you up after a fight.”

“Sure, Buck,” Steve says easily. Way too easily.

Bucky narrows his eyes. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” Steve says. “Cross my heart and hope to die. I’ll be cooperative if you ever have to patch me up again.”

“If?” Bucky asks, jumping on the word instantly. “So what? You saying you’re not gonna get into any more fights?”

Steve laughs. “You know I can’t promise that. I meant if I ever lose another fight.”

“Don’t let that rusty flare gun give you a big head now,” Bucky says. “That trick ain’t gonna work more than once.”

“I have to stand my ground for better or for worse, Bucky,” Steve says, serious now. “Or it will never stop.”

Bucky is afraid it will never stop, anyway. But he just nods his head and lets Steve drag him home to get looked at.


	4. Seventeen, 1934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky does something impulsive on his birthday.
> 
> From the playlist: Blue Moon – Glen Gray & The Casa Loma Orchestra, 1934

Bucky's wrestling with a tie when Steve knocks on the door frame. He forgets to breathe a moment, seeing Bucky like that. It’s almost as if he blinked, and the Bucky he’s always known has transformed right before his eyes – soft cheeks, strong jaw, the slight pouting curl of those lips, those soulful grey-blue eyes. Something about the suit brings it all together, and Steve’s got his work cut out for him trying not to do anything stupid.

"Hey, Buck," he says, relieved that his voice has finally settled into its lower register, all the cracks smoothed out. He’s wearing his best suit. His only suit. And he’d spent an hour in front of the mirror fussing over his hair, despite the fact that he kept reminding himself he wasn’t going on a date. He was going to his best friend’s birthday dinner, for God’s sake.

"Hey," Bucky says, giving up on his tie. He drops his hands to his sides. "You look nice."

Steve smiles. "Thanks. So do you."

The silence drags on between them, and Bucky's giving Steve a look that reminds him of the array of uncomfortably embarrassing things that he can’t seem to control about himself lately. Like the dreams. He wonders if Bucky wakes up in the middle night gasping and aching and wanting so badly, too.

Bucky yanks the tie out from underneath his collar in one sudden movement, startling Steve, and then he’s crowding Steve back out into the hallway.

"You ready?” he asks. “I'm ready. Let's go."

Steve can feel his closeness like a miasma. A temptation. He tries to push past it.

"You alright there, Buck?" he asks, hoping his voice didn’t actually catch just then.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Bucky says, striding off toward the stairs.

"No date tonight, huh?" Steve asks, because he wants to know why Dot isn’t here. She and Bucky have been seeing each other off and on for three months now, though to Steve it might as well have been an eternity.

Bucky practically trips down the stairs, running down the last few steps and into the living room before Steve can push the issue.

"Here comes the birthday boy!" his sister Becca shouts, and his parents are there, too, grinning at Bucky proudly.

And then Steve is swept up into the usual Barnes family whirlwind, Becca stepping up to hug him, squeezing him hard, and he has no choice but to table the question for later.

Bucky spends dinner joking easily with Steve across the table, his family jumping in every chance they get, though the awkward undercurrent seems worse than ever tonight. Steve's exhausted by the time dessert rolls around, feeling like everything is spiraling out of control.

They head to the movies, and Bucky ignores him the whole way there. Even worse, he tries to maneuver Becca between them when they get to the theater. Steve tries not to notice them wrestling at the entrance to the row as he sits down next to Mrs. Barnes, feeling like the worst piece of shit on Earth. Becca whispers something into Bucky’s ear, and he tenses, eyes darting over to Steve and then away. He frowns and pushes her hard, and she trips back and bumps into some dame walking past. There’s a flurry of apologies, and then Becca’s dragging Bucky up the aisle and out into the hall.

“What’s gotten into him?” Mr. Barnes asks, half-rising.

Mrs. Barnes puts a hand on his arm. “Leave him be.”

“But—”

“George,” she says firmly, then turns to Steve. “Gumdrop?” she asks brightly, shoving the box into his face.

“Thanks,” Steve says, practically on the verge of tears. He takes a single gumdrop and chews on it, barely even tasting the sweetness, his mouth full of bitter dread. Maybe Dot is coming, after all. Maybe it’s a surprise. Maybe she couldn’t make it to dinner for some reason, so she’s gonna show up at the theater at the last minute, all dolled up, and make it up to Bucky out in the hall before they come stumbling in just as the movie starts, giggling in the dark.

“I’ve...got to use the WC,” Steve says, pushing up from his seat.

“Do you know where to go?” Mrs. Barnes asks. “George, will you show him to the gents?”

“Of course,” George says, getting to his feet, all full of that damnable Barnes solicitude.

“No, thank you, Mr. Barnes, Mrs. Barnes,” Steve says, mustering up as much earnestness as possible. “I’ll find it.”

“Alright,” Mrs. Barnes says, something flashing across her face before she can school her expression. “Well, we’ll be here.”

Steve takes a deep breath before he steps into the hall, relieved to see that it’s just Becca and Bucky standing there, looking like they’re in the middle of an argument.

"Bucky?" he says, watching Bucky’s shoulders drop as he says his name, his body going limp for a moment before he turns.

"Hi, Steve," Becca says. "Bucky was just telling me—"

"I was gonna get you some popcorn," Bucky says quickly.

“Well, that’s odd,” Steve says. He looks Bucky up and down, angry now. “You’ve been ignoring me since dinner, so when exactly did you decide that I wanted some popcorn? It’s not like I got the chance to ask for any myself."

"Yeah, that's why. As an apology?"

"I'm just gonna go, okay?" Steve says. He hates when Bucky gets all squirrelly like this.

Becca nudges Bucky in the side, hard. "Time to get off that merry-go-round, huh?"

"Hey, Stevie," Bucky says, reaching out to tug on his sleeve. Steve looks up at him, eyes narrowing.

"Look, I'm sorry,” Bucky continues. “I've been a real jerk. I— um. I have a lot on my mind."

Steve is sure he does. It’s probably Dot. Maybe he’s working himself up to ask her to go steady.

"Let me make it up to you?" Bucky asks. There’s something broken in his expression, pleading and remorseful. Becca is watching Steve closely, her eyes speaking volumes in a language Steve isn’t sure he quite understands, until she tilts her gaze on her older brother, as if to say _What are we gonna do with him, huh?_ Steve feels that stupid hope rising in his chest again, and he knows he’s gonna let Bucky buy him another damn bag of apology popcorn, like he always does.

"All right,” he says, as Bucky’s face lights up. “But it better be a ten cent bag."

“There’s a man after my own heart,” Becca says, grinning, her smile as dazzling as her brother’s. “Can you buy me one, too, Bucky? Please?”

Bucky sighs heavily, but Steve can tell he’s pleased. Really pleased.

After that, it feels just like old times again. Steve and Bucky spend the whole movie whispering into each other's ears and trying their best not to get kicked out when they break into gales of laughter at the worst moments. Bucky's da takes it all in stride, but his ma is furious with them and chews them out once the credits start rolling. Becca looks unbearably smug the entire time. Bucky walks Steve back to his apartment, and they loiter at the bottom of the steps, scuffing their shoes on the pavement.

"That was fun," Bucky says.

"Yeah." Steve's standing there with his hands shoved in his pockets, working up the courage to say more. "Yeah, I wish it wasn't so late already."

"You know, I sneak in and out of my window all the time," Bucky says.

Steve raises his eyebrows, trying not to think of Dot. "Yeah?" He’s sure Bucky must be able to hear his heart hammering away even from over there.

"Yeah. It's not that hard of a climb. If you're determined."

"Hmmm," Steve says, his whole body flushing warm. "Good to know." He looks at his bare wrist. "Wow, look at the time. I should probably go."

"All right," Bucky says, grinning. "See you soon?"

"Sooner than you think," Steve says, and this time he knows for sure that Bucky heard his voice catch in his throat, judging by the way he’s standing there looking like he’s quietly on fire.

They stare at each other a moment longer, Bucky’s gaze heavy on his face, and then Steve starts backing his way up the stairs one step at a time, afraid to break contact, afraid that this is all just another dream.

Bucky huffs out a laugh, his breath fogging in the cold air.

“Go on, Stevie,” he says, dropping his gaze back down to the ground. “I’ll be waiting.”

* * *

Bucky paces around his bedroom, checking to make sure he locked the door for the fifteenth time. He's still trying to figure out why the hell he even asked Steve up. It's not like he's a girl. It's easier to figure out the game with girls, because everyone talks about it. But with Steve...he can't even figure out what he wants. He still feels like he probably shouldn't want anything at all, no matter what Becca says. Becca isn’t the entire rest of the world.

He's got a fuzzy idea going in his head when he hears a tap on his window. He lifts the sash carefully and unlatches the frame, his heart thumping so loud in his chest that he can barely hear himself think.

"Hey, Buck," Steve says as he throws one leg over the sill. He's still in the suit he wore to dinner earlier that evening, face flushed from the exertion of the climb.

"Hey, Steve."

There's an awkward pause, then Steve clears his other leg and steps aside as Bucky closes the window.

"So." Steve's staring at Bucky with a cautious look in his eyes. "What's the plan?"

"Well, Stevie." He feels like he's gonna throw up. "Remember how I used to sleep in your bed sometimes? When we were kids?"

"Yeah," Steve says, the tops of his ears going red. "You mean, until my ma caught us?"

"Yeah." This is probably a mistake. Bucky soldiers on, anyway. "You wanna...do that, again?"

The look on Steve's face is two parts suspicious, one part wondering. "Are you serious?"

There's probably still time to bail, but Bucky's not a quitter. He watches Steve carefully. Sees the beads of sweat breaking out on his upper lip, the way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. He starts unbuttoning his shirt.

"What are you doing?" Steve asks, panic flashing in his eyes.

"I'm not getting into bed with my clothes on," Bucky scoffs. "It'll be too hot." He's forcing casual, and he can tell Steve knows it. He gets down to his underwear and wiggles himself under the sheets.

Steve's still just standing there. "What about Dot?"

Bucky can feel the flush rising to his face. Well. There's definitely no turning back now.

"We split up for good. A week ago."

“I’m sorry," Steve says, ever the loyal friend. "So that's why she wasn't at dinner. Are you okay?”

Bucky wants to roll his eyes at how earnest he's trying to be even though it looks like he just won the lottery but doesn't quite believe it.

"Yeah," he says, instead. "We both agreed we're not cut out for each other."

Steve reaches up and unbuttons his top two buttons, then just tugs the shirt off over his head, folding it carefully before adding his trousers to the pile. He looks cold already, so Bucky lifts the covers invitingly so Steve can slide in next to him.

"So you're seventeen and single?"

Bucky snorts. "Looks like it."

"What a goddamn shame." Steve's laying it on thick now, his eyes open over-wide and overflowing with sympathy.

Bucky lets himself roll his eyes this time. "Jesus Christ, Stevie. It's not the end of the world."

"It's just I figured you'd want a date for tonight."

"Yeah, well." Bucky meets his eyes. "Maybe I do." He feels the bottom of the world drop out from underneath him. Already the doubts are crowding in.

"You do?" Steve says, his expression shifting to something wary and just a little sad. Bucky feels hot and cold at the same time, panic spiraling around him.

"Um, I understand if you don't..."

"It's okay." Steve scoots closer. "You just caught me by surprise. I figured, you know, with all the girls..."

“I know,” Bucky whispers. “I was scared. I am scared.”

“So am I,” Steve says, his voice husky. “But I’ve never been able to blend in. And I can’t get girls to look at me once. So. I guess I got used to it.”

Bucky feels that like a knife between his ribs.

“Becca knows, doesn’t she?” Steve asks.

Bucky grins sadly at that. “She’s the smart one out of the two of us.”

“Oh, I know,” Steve says, a bit sharp.

“I’m sorry, Stevie,” Bucky says, his chest fit to crack open.

Steve breathes out next to him, just looking. Bucky doesn't dare move a muscle, doesn't let himself blink, doesn't let himself breathe, for fear of sending the wrong signal. It must have worked, because Steve smiles and lets his fingers brush lightly against Bucky's cheek.

"You're my best friend in the whole world, Bucky Barnes."

When Steve kisses him, it takes Bucky a moment to register it, his head exploding as if God had typed one giant exclamation point directly into his brain. He fumbles for the sharp edges of Steve's hips, fingers catching in the coarse cotton of his underwear. Steve smiles against his mouth.


	5. Daybreak, 1936

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sarah Rogers passes away and things get tough.
> 
> From the playlist: A Little Bit Independent – Fats Waller, 1935

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: One incident of interpersonal violence (click link to skip down to end-of-chapter notes if you would like more details before reading), Period-typical homophobia evident in a conversation**

Steve dreads the mornings now. Bucky has taken to coming by early every morning before work since the day his ma... No, he can't think about it, really. It’s been a few weeks now, but still, it’s always too easy to pretend she’s at work. That she'll be home soon. That is, until Bucky shows up, instead.

He doesn’t want to wake up, but the sun is shining in his eyes. He forgot to close the curtains last night. He didn’t even bother to undress, all curled up on the armchair where she used to sit and read.

He looks up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, the key turning in the lock. He tenses as Bucky steps in, closing the door gently behind him. His hair is all shiny with fresh pomade, and he’s in his work clothes, as always.

"Hey, honey, how are you?" Bucky asks, his eyes soft.

Steve doesn’t understand how Bucky can still look at him like that when he’s been so horrible lately.

"Don't talk to me that way," he says automatically, something small inside of him twinging helplessly. He hates how this grief makes him so irritable. But it’s the only thing that he can get out. Everything else is trapped inside, slowly suffocating him to death.

"Sorry." Bucky walks over to stand by his chair. He clears his throat. "Hey, listen. I’m getting paid today—"

"I don't want your money," Steve spits out, because that’s charity and the Rogers family doesn’t take charity. They never have. They never will. Even if he’s the last one left. Especially because he’s the last one left.

Bucky takes a deep breath. "You have to let me help you somehow, Stevie. I know you can't pay for this place all on your own."

"I'm fine."

Bucky shifts from one foot to another. "You can't be fine. You look terrible."

Steve blinks. He is used to insults, but they don't usually come from Bucky.

"Thanks?"

"Well, I have to say something," Bucky replies. "You always _were_ too fucking dumb to run away from a fight."

In that moment, Steve sees him again as that thirteen-year-old kid, tall and too-thin, who had shown up in the alleyway out of nowhere, mid-fight, and surprised the hell out of him by joining at his side.

"I won't apologize for who I am, Bucky. I don't budge for anyone. Not even you. You know this about me."

"Fighting me is one thing. But you can't fight death, Steve."

"That's a damn cold thing to say."

"Yeah, well. I'm fuckin' desperate. You're running yourself into the ground."

"What are you saying, Bucky? That I won't be able to handle life without my ma to take care of me?" The words come out of Steve's mouth before the rush of anger even hits him.

Bucky glares at him. "Of course not. I'm just saying everyone needs help. Even you. Sarah was—"

"Don't you dare speak her name," Steve says, a sick sense of betrayal in the pit of his stomach, his body shaking with rage. "Fuck you, Barnes."

"Steve—"

"Get the hell out."

"What?"

"You fucking heard me," Steve says, anger eclipsing everything. "Unless you want me to knock out a couple of your fucking teeth."

Bucky takes a sharp breath, his eyes widening. Steve clenches his jaw, grateful that Bucky doesn't break out in a fit of affectionate laughter as he probably would have in the past. Thank Christ for that.

"You're an idiot," Bucky says, his voice cracking. "I'm not fucking leaving. I’m gonna stay and make you breakfast like I’ve done every morning. And this time I’m going to sit here until you eat it all. Because I swear to God, you look like you’re wasting away on me."

Steve gets to his feet, ignoring the wave of dizziness that comes with the sudden movement.

"Get out."

"No,” Bucky says. "I love you. Let me help."

Steve barely registers the words before his hand is swinging, punching Bucky right in the mouth. The crack feels good against his knuckles, but he knows it’s the worst mistake he’s ever made in his entire life.

"Ow!" Bucky stumbles back, his lips already bloody.

"Goddamn you," Steve says. There’s something wet on his face. "Just give up already, you stupid jerk. I'm a lost cause. Can't even throw a guy out of my own apartment."

"‘Course you can," Bucky is saying, although his voice sounds muzzy now because of his swollen lip. "I'm just not your average guy, you know?"

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?" Steve manages to choke out. He swipes at his face with a palm. Oh God, tears. Actual tears.

"I'm _your_ guy," Bucky says, wiping his bloody mouth with his handkerchief. "And I'll leave, if that's what you want."

"Piss....off," Steve says as he holds back a wave of sobs. "I was fine...I was fine till you got here." He tries to regain his composure but that only makes it worse. Clearly, Bucky knows better than to try and touch him, so he just stands there looking like an idiot with tears in his eyes.

"I'm not sure if 'piss off' is supposed to mean you want me to stay or go, Stevie."

"What the fuck do you think it means?" Steve manages fiercely.

Bucky gives him a worried look. "Fine. I'll go. Do you want to throw me out officially or should I just leave?"

Steve's heart rips open in his chest, all that sadness, all that anger, piling up behind his eyes, crowding in his throat, threatening to tear him into millions of pieces. He hates crying in front of anyone. He hates it worse when it’s Bucky.

"I don't want to cry in front of you."

"I know."

"But I don't want you to leave."

Bucky is openly crying now. "I know."

"Why are you crying?" Steve demands. "I'm the one that's supposed to be crying."

"I can't help myself," Bucky says, his face crumpling. "It's hard enough mourning her, without seeing the toll it's taking on you. And then you went and fucking punched me when I said I love you."

Steve starts laughing, great hysterical gasps that make it so he has to collapse on the chair again. He can't just keep standing through that. And then he really does start crying, and it hurts so bad. He can't feel anything except that pain. That huge empty space inside of him. Bucky kneels in front of him, rubbing his back, pulling him into an embrace, squeezing him tightly and rocking back and forth until Steve can feel the warmth seeping in.

"I don't know what to do, Bucky," he hiccups. "I can't stand being here, but I don't want to leave. Who's gonna pack up her things? How am I gonna— How am I gonna do anything?"

"We'll figure it out, Stevie," Bucky says. "We'll figure it out together."

Steve feels the rush of warmth now, understands that everything about his mother that had buoyed him up, all that love, well, Bucky has it, too.

"I'm sorry I punched you," Steve murmurs against Bucky's neck.

"It's okay. I know you held back, you little punk."

Steve snorts. "God, you must really love me."

There’s a pause, and Steve feels Bucky swallow hard. "Yeah."

"I...thanks, Bucky," Steve says, feeling like he doesn’t deserve this at all. Feeling like he probably never will. Even worse, he can’t bring himself to say it back. Not when he’d acted like such a jerk. Not when he’d hit the only person in the world that he cared about. He knows he’s got to do better. He’s got to earn the right to say it back.

* * *

Bucky tip-toes his way down the stairs, shoes in hand, and slides into the kitchen in his stockinged feet, his heart dropping into his stomach at the sight of his mother smoking a cigarette at the table. She’s still in her bathrobe, her eyes smudged and tired.

“You want to tell me where you’ve been going at daybreak every day?”

Bucky gulps, a sheen of cold sweat breaking out all over his body.

“You’re a proper adult now,” Winifred continues. “So you don’t have to. I just worry, is all.”

“I’ve been going to check on Steve before work,” Bucky says, his voice coming out all reedy. He clears his throat. “He’s still real torn up about his ma.”

Winifred closes her eyes, nodding, as if she already suspected. She takes a long drag from the cigarette, contemplating him.

“You be careful now,” she says, expelling the words with a long stream of smoke. “People talk.”

Bucky shrugs. “People always do.”

But that's bravado. He worries about the same thing. The looks the neighbors give him. The way the grocer scowls every time he steps into the shop. He can’t walk into the barber shop without everyone going awkwardly silent. He’d managed to get by on sheer charm for years, but now it’s all wearing too thin. He’s been thinking on it long and hard, putting two-and-two together. Steve can’t afford his place anymore. Bucky is quickly outgrowing living under the same roof as his parents. Becca has already started making noises about going to college instead of getting married right away, and Winifred hasn’t even put up that much of a fight about it. He and Steve can find a new place together, where people don’t know them as well. Where people tend to look the other way more willingly.

“How long has he been your fellow?” Winifred asks, the words catching in her throat.

Bucky sits down across from her, reaching out to fiddle with the salt mill in the middle of the table. He thinks about lying. Maybe it’d ease his ma’s mind a little if she could pretend it was nothing. But he doesn’t like lying to his mother. He has to lie too much to everyone else.

“Two years,” he says, ducking his head, a flush rising to his cheeks. He hadn’t expected to feel this way talking about it, but now that he’d opened his mouth, he feels so soft, so vulnerable, so attached to what she might say next.

“I love Steve, too, you know,” Winifred says, taking another puff of her cigarette. “But…the queer life is no life, Jamie. Don’t you want to get married? Have a family? Get a good job? You’ll never have any of that the way you’re going now. You’ll just have grief and terror, always looking over your shoulder, waiting to get caught.”

Bucky recoils against the chair back, her words pouring like acid all over his heart. He doesn’t know why he expected anything different. There aren’t that many people out there like Becca, like Sarah Rogers, God rest her soul, who aren’t queer but somehow still understand.

“You don’t think I worry about that, Ma?” he asks, struggling to keep his voice level. “Why do you think I tried dating so many girls?”

“And what did they think about Steve, huh? You think they didn’t notice? That why it never worked out?”

“No, Ma. It didn’t work out because…because I’ve only got eyes for one person. I tried, Ma. I really tried. But wouldn’t it be worse to live a lie? To pretend to be something I’m not? To lead some poor dame along for years and years, knowing my heart will always be somewhere else?”

“You’d learn to love her,” Winifred says. “Or if not that, you’d love your kids. Once you have kids, nothing else feels as important.”

Bucky presses his palms flat to the table.

“Your uncle did it,” Winifred says, the words snapping out as if she has to say them fast, before she changes her mind. “He was like you, when we were kids. Got himself straightened out and married and now look at him? He’s happy, isn’t he?”

“Is he?” Bucky asks. “Seems to me he’s a drunk.”

“Don’t you talk about your Uncle Saul like that.”

Bucky pushes back from the table and stands up. He’s shaking, nauseous, but he’s gotta say it while he has the chance.

“I’m sorry, Ma. I’m sorry I can’t be what you want me to be.”

Winifred stubs out her cigarette. “What do I do with these kids? Becca wanting to strike out all on her own, for God’s sake. And my other kid a queer?”

Bucky grabs his shoes and heads for the front door, pushing every feeling, every emotion as deep as he can get it to go, tamping it down mercilessly.

“Does he treat you right, at least?” Winifred asks.

Bucky stops in place, debating whether or not to answer. What did it matter? She didn’t understand, anyway. She probably never would. He should just leave while he still can. Before his Da wakes up and gets in on this and makes it worse.

“He better treat you right,” Winifred says, with steel in her voice.

“He does.” Bucky throws the words over his shoulder, his spine rigid.

“He’s always seemed like a bit of a bastard to me.”

Bucky whirls on her, rage threatening to tear out of him. “You don’t know what it’s like for him. He’s a smart and talented sonuvabitch, right? But people only see that he’s small and sickly. He’s had to fight tooth and nail for everything he has, and he’s still got a heart of gold despite that.”

Winifred gets to her feet, holding out her arms. “Come here.”

Bucky doesn’t want to, dizzy with the anger and grief trapped inside of him. It’s crawling under his skin. But he goes anyway, because it’s his mother asking. He lets Winifred envelope him in her arms, squeezing him tightly.

“You’re leaving us soon, Jamie. I can feel it in my bones.”

“Yeah,” Bucky admits, the emotions draining out of him almost as quickly as they came, leaving him feeling slightly queasy and deflated. This was an unexpected olive branch his ma was holding out. An opportunity to come clean, instead of having to put it off to another harrowing conversation later.

“He can’t afford his place without his ma’s salary,” Bucky continues, the words pouring out of him now. “The two of us could manage a pretty decent place. In a different neighborhood. It’s not too strange to see single fellas rooming together, anyway. A lot of guys from work do it to save up enough money to get married. And if Steve gets sick again like what happened last winter… Well, it would be easier if I could just be there with him all the time.”

“I love you no matter what, Jamie,” Winifred says, and Bucky is horrified when he realizes she’s crying. “You remember that. And if you ever need anything, give us a shout, all right? You don’t have to do this all on your own.”

It takes a second for those words to sink in, and for Bucky’s throat to unlock enough so he can speak.

“Thanks, Ma,” he says, his voice barely a croak.

“And if you get into trouble, don’t forget us, either. No one fucks with the Barnes family, you understand?”

Bucky huffs out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, Ma.”

“Now get the hell out of here, Jamie boy,” she says, kissing his cheek and pushing him away so that he can’t get a good look at her tear-stained face. “Wouldn’t do to keep him waiting, would it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***  
> ***  
> ***  
> ***  
> ***  
> ***  
> (More details for CW: Re: interpersonal violence: Steve punches Bucky in the mouth in the middle of a grief-induced meltdown, but he regrets it immediately, and it is both the first and last time he does this.)


	6. Furnace, 1937

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get hot in the middle of a frigid winter night.
> 
> From the playlist: And Then Some – Ozzie Nelson, 1935

Steve wakes up in the middle of the night, face down in his pillow, shivering. He lifts his head and sees that Bucky is already awake, lying on his side and facing him. He’s got one hand resting heavy on the small of his back, and now that Steve’s awake, he moves it in one slow stroke. Up and down.

“Furnace went out again, I think,” he murmurs. His eyes seem to glow in the streetlight filtering through the window. The furnace had already gone out twice this month. The first time, Bucky had harangued the landlord about it and it got fixed the next day. After all, nobody could afford the consequences of having the pipes freeze. The second time, the landlord dragged his feet. Spring was coming on, wasn’t it? They didn’t need heat. So Bucky fixed it himself.

They already have every blanket they own piled up on their bed, haphazard and crooked. Steve always runs cold, so he’s wearing the full set of clothes he wears to bed every night – worn old trousers, one of Bucky’s old flannel shirts, thick wool socks, and one of the knit caps his ma had made him years ago. Even so, he wishes he had put on a sweater, too. It’s too damn cold to get up and fetch it. He’d be wasting the bit of heat they’ve managed to build up under the covers.

He shivers again. Bucky pulls the covers up over their heads, then draws Steve right up against him, tucking Steve’s head under his chin. He is so warm. He always is. Steve wiggles closer. He can feel the hairs on Bucky’s chest tickling his forehead, peeking through the unbuttoned gap in his shirt. He looks good like that, too. The hair’s grown in nice, the perfect dusting of light brown along his sternum. Then there’s the trail that goes from his belly button on down, a line that Steve has followed countless times now, hair coarse against his tongue.

He would give anything for just a little more hair like that on his body. He would give more if he could actually grow a decent amount of facial hair like Bucky does. That 5 o’clock shadow that makes him look so sultry and mysterious, the scrape that drives Steve crazy as it raws up his mouth.

Steve presses closer, rubbing his face against Bucky’s chest, smiling at the way Bucky takes in a deep breath and then sighs out, arms tightening around Steve’s back. Steve’s body flushes with warmth, pushing away the sharpest biting edge of cold, and so he parts his lips, presses a wet kiss to Bucky’s collarbone, in the little dip right in the center, just below his Adam’s apple.

He feels Bucky hum deep in his chest and scoots up to capture his mouth in a long, sweet kiss. Bucky’s running his hands up and down Steve’s back, his arms, trying to warm him up, a bit this side of rough, and yet somehow still gentle. Steve’s dizzy with the feel of it, three little words crowding up against the back of his throat. He’s wanted to say them since Bucky said them first, but it always felt like there was a little more he should do to earn the privilege. Bucky is so good. So, so good. And Steve, well. He almost always does his best, at least.

“Hey,” Bucky says, so soft it’s almost just a sigh. “Are you feeling a little warmer now? Or should I go get your sweater?”

“Don’t you dare,” Steve says, curling his fingers in Bucky’s shirt to keep him there. It’s more than just a matter of letting all the warm air out. He’s gotten closer than he’s ever had to saying it, and Bucky can’t move now. It would shatter this moment, this heat, these words that are forming in his mouth, ready to be spoken from the heart, like Bucky spoke them himself. Every time he got close to saying them before, the words felt stilted and awkward on his tongue. The moment is drawing out, and Steve wants it to reach its conclusion. He wants to say it. He wants to say it.

Bucky looks a little confused, but his hands are moving up and down Steve’s back again. Steve melts under that touch, shaking Bucky a little with his fists still trapped in his shirt.

“I love you,” he says. He doesn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation. 

“Do you?” Bucky asks, smiling his dazzling smile.

“Yes,” Steve says, softly now. “I love you, teddy bear.”

"That's the best news I've heard in my entire life," Bucky says, because he can’t ever play his cards close to his chest when it comes to Steve Rogers. No use in trying.

“You can’t be serious.” Steve’s face is doing something complicated, a touch of wonder here, a flash of doubt there, a bit of chagrin darkening his blue eyes.

“Dead serious,” Bucky says. It hurts to see how Steve still doubts himself so much. His value. His beauty. He reaches out, catches that pointy chin with one hand, bringing their mouths together. Steve lets himself be kissed for a moment or two before pulling away, holding Bucky’s face between his hands, just looking at him.

Bucky wants to make Steve feel what he feels for him. Unwavering confidence. Absolute awe and absolute terror in the face of his courage, his willingness to stand up over and over even though he knows he’ll get pushed back down every time. A love that sometimes frightens him with its depth, its loyalty, its earnestness. His whole body is on fire with it, everything waiting to spill out of him. He rolls forward, flattening Steve underneath him. He can feel Steve's heart beating against his rib cage, a brush of hummingbird wings as he arches up, pressing the sharp angle of his hips against Bucky’s stomach.

Steve’s hands slide up over the slope of Bucky’s ass, fingers kneading flesh as he thrusts up against him. It’s much warmer under the covers now, sweat prickling on Bucky’s chin, along his hairline. He unbuttons the front of Steve’s shirt, mouth following along to anoint each patch of newly exposed skin. Steve’s sweating now, too, the pale skin of his chest slightly clammy to the touch. Bucky thinks they should probably stop. Working up too much of a sweat wouldn’t be the best thing to do when the heat’s out. They’d pay for it later. Anyone who's had to walk home in winter after a long, strenuous day at work knows the chill you can get from the feel of damp cotton cold against your back.

But Steve is pawing at his shoulders, trying to get at his shirt, and Bucky’s certainly not thinking straight now. Not that he ever did. He lets Steve pull his shirt off over his head, yelping as the covers flap up, letting in a good dose of chilled air. Steve yanks them back down around them, and Bucky presses down, full contact now, skin against skin.

He buries his face in Steve’s neck, licking and kissing, then running his mouth along the sharp lines of his collarbone. Steve sighs deep and low as Bucky traces the outer edge of one puckered nipple and then the other, feeling more alive in this moment than he ever feels out there in the world. Each sound, each sensation, runs electric through his body. He moves down to the curve of Steve’s stomach, the tender skin underneath his navel leading down, down, down. 

Steve’s hands slip through his hair, tugging gently, as Bucky unbuttons the one remaining button on the old trousers that Steve wears as pajamas in winter. Steve’s practically showing through already, but Bucky wants more. He pushes the soft, worn fabric down past Steve’s knees, helping him wiggle one leg out, and then he’s there, running his tongue along that heat and hardness, grinding himself against the bed as he tastes him.

Bucky hadn't thought ahead to this part, so when Steve comes, he just sucks him through it, all his senses blown out by the warm feeling on his tongue, the fullness in his mouth, Steve's hands in his hair, the sound of his voice. He swallows everything, even though he knows Steve will probably feel bad about it later. He doesn't want to take his mouth off him just yet. He stops just before Steve shoves him off gently, then crawls up to stretch out beside him.

“My God,” Steve says, pushing the blankets down to expose their faces, the cold air rushing in fresh against Bucky’s cheeks. “My _God_ ,” he says again.

“Oh yeah?” Bucky slides an arm around Steve’s waist, thrusting gently against his bony hip, his eyelids fluttering shut at the almost unbearable sensation.

“You know I felt the same even before I said it, right?” Steve asks, refocusing very suddenly and looking extremely worried.

“What?” Bucky asks, hazy with desire. “Of course I did.”

“Hmmm.” Steve turns onto his side. Bucky can’t stop looking at his mouth, all wet and swollen. Steve’s got that crooked grin on his face that he always gets when it’s his turn to take Bucky apart.

He feels Steve’s hands sliding down his chest, fingers tracing the line below his navel. Steve grinds the heel of one palm down his length, and he gasps and surges forward to kiss him. And then Steve is disappearing down underneath the covers, pressing Bucky back against the bed, mouth sliding against his skin.

He marks a searing path down Bucky’s chest, his stomach, to the place where everything converges in one howling, aching desire. It feels like he’s somehow giving Bucky everything that’s good about the world all at once, ringing pleasure rising up, lifting Bucky higher and higher, until the wave breaks and he surfaces gasping and blinking against the bed, undone and re-made, his heart staggering back to its usual rhythm.

Steve nuzzles up next to him, stroking his face, his neck, murmuring soft little words into his ear, kissing him again and again until sleep comes to reclaim them, eyes going heavy, warm, relaxed bodies twining together.


	7. Nine, 1938

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which life gets a little more complicated.
> 
> From the playlist: I Can’t Believe That You’re in Love With Me – Billie Holiday, 1938

Steve stays awake as long as he can, waiting for Bucky to come home, but they’d argued about the civil war in Spain again, so there’s no telling when he’ll show up. It’s been a fairly recurrent thing these last couple of years as he’s gotten more deeply involved with the Socialist Party. Bucky hasn’t ever been anything but supportive of his political leanings, even attending meetings with him sometimes, but he tends to keep to the edges, resisting labeling himself as anything in particular.

“I like keeping tabs on multiple perspectives,” he always says. “I like some of what the socialists say, same as the communists, same as the Democrats.”

Steve, meanwhile, is proud to call himself a socialist. He feels like he’s finally found his place in the world. No one looks askance at him when he launches into one of his rants about Ford and General Motors supplying the Spanish nationalists with trucks, or Stark Industries lobbying to have the weapons export ban lifted. The problem, though, is that once he gets started, he can’t seem to stop. He’ll go to a meeting and come home all riled up, inevitably putting Bucky on edge when he gets home from work.

Tonight had been a doozy, though. Steve had brought up enlisting in the Lincoln-Washington battalion again. There had once been two separate battalions of Americans who had joined the International Brigade in Albacete. So many of them had been killed, however, that they had been forced to merge. These were the details that Bucky paid the most attention to, and he deployed them with deadly accuracy when he needed to. Like tonight, when he told Steve, right to his face, that he wasn’t about to let his best guy run off and get himself killed with all the other sorry assholes who’d gone off to fight, that it was better for him to stay here and fight fascism from home.

It had been a terrible choice of words, a subconscious acknowledgment that Bucky really does see himself as the head of the household, no matter how many times he insists they’re equals. Naturally, Steve had taken it in the worst way possible. And Bucky had left without even finishing his dinner.

He’s off dancing, probably. He had confessed a little while ago that he does that sometimes, after they fight. Sometimes he just needs to move to music and forget about life for a while. He’s probably got some beautiful girl in his arms right about now, twirling around and laughing. He hasn’t seemed at all interested in girls since they got together, but that doesn’t mean that Steve doesn’t worry about it on bad days. Especially when he gets to feeling like he’s been too much. Bucky teases him about it all the time, but maybe one of these days he’ll be serious about it, and he’ll go away and never come back.

Steve finally admits defeat and goes to bed when his head starts hurting, his eyes burning for sleep. He dreams of Bucky slow dancing, close and dirty, with a gorgeous, curvy brunette. They’re walking over to get a drink. She’s disappearing in the direction of the bathrooms. He’s following...

He wakes to the sound of muttered curses, light spilling across the room from the section of their apartment that passes for their kitchen. Bucky’s sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, still in his coat and shoes. He’s curled over something trapped between his knees, a small tube lying on the table, big dabs of goo dripping from the opening.

“Get the fuck off me,” Bucky mutters, lifting his hand, long strands of what must be glue stretching between whatever he has between his knees and his fingers, raised high above his head now. He sputters as a couple of strands drift into his face and tilts his head to the side, his eyes meeting Steve’s.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks, more than a little bit relieved to see that Bucky’s come home.

“Steve,” Bucky says, his eyes widening with alarm. “Go back to sleep.”

Steve watches as the thing Bucky’s holding slips out from between his knees and thumps onto the floor. It’s one of his boots.

“Bucky,” he says, sliding out from underneath the covers and pausing only long enough to pull on his sweater. “What are you doing to my boot?”

“Knew you wouldn’t let me if I asked,” Bucky says, putting Steve instantly on edge. He can’t help it. Bucky’s pulling that “man of the house” shit again, and he just can’t deal with that right now.

“I’m being sneaky about it,” Bucky continues. “Fixing ‘em because I can’t buy you new ones. You shouldn’t have wet feet in any season, ‘specially not in winter. You’ll catch your death.” He almost runs his glue-covered fingers through his hair then remembers at the last minute, glaring at his hand and half-heartedly wiping his fingers on the table.

“Hey!” Steve says, grabbing the rag hanging over the lip of the kitchen sink. “Don’t get glue all over my ma’s table.”

“Fuck,” Bucky says. “Sorry.”

He looks so forlorn that Steve doesn’t glare at him like he had planned to when he goes to wipe the tabletop. It’s not even a nice table. It has sentimental value, more than anything.

“Let me,” Bucky says, his voice soggy. “I made the mess.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“I made the mess,” Bucky insists.

“Stop it,” Steve says, as Bucky tries to grab the rag from his hands.

“Please, let me fix this,” Bucky says, his eyes wet. “Let me fix something, for once.”

“You already do practically everything,” Steve mutters, catching Bucky’s hand and wiping the glue off his fingers as gently as he can.

“It’s not enough if it’s not enough,” Bucky says. “And obviously it’s not enough.”

“Bucky, you pay the rent, you pay most of the bills, you buy most of the food—” Steve takes a deep breath, willing himself to relax, his lungs already seizing up under the strain of his agitation.

“And you’re a saint with a sinner’s mouth,” Bucky says, looking up at him with the intense focus that only a drunk person can have. “Pure of heart, smart as a whip, _and_ a real smart aleck, just to round it out. I’ve known since I was thirteen years old that I would go to hell and back for you. You don’t even understand everything you do, how much people listen to you when you talk. You don’t see who’s watching when you act, and how you inspire everyone around you to be better. I’m just a working stiff, but you...you’re so much more. So. The least I can do is fix your boots.”

“Jesus,” Steve says, his heart sinking even as he flushes at the pretty words. “How could you actually think— Jesus, you’re not just a working stiff, Bucky. How could you even say that?”

“Don’t leave me yet, Stevie,” Bucky says, leaning forward to press his face against Steve’s neck, arms wrapping heavy around his waist. “Please. Gimme a few more years before you run off to save the world.”

Steve’s got his arms around Bucky’s shoulders before he even thinks about it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “You know they wouldn’t take me even if I wanted— Fuck, it doesn’t even matter. I’m not going anywhere, Buck, you hear me? Not without you.”

“Ngh,” Bucky says, his breath hot against Steve’s chest.

“Bucky.”

“Hmm?”

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Nine.”

“Nine what?” Steve asks, a little bit afraid now.

“Not enough,” Bucky sighs.

There’s a little pause, and then Bucky’s head is drooping down, arms loosening and sliding down over Steve’s hips. He’s falling asleep.

“Fuck,” Steve says, eying the glue drying on the table. He nudges his boot so it’s lying on its side. It’ll probably cure just fine like that. He puts the lid back on the tube of glue, trying his best not to jostle Bucky, then wipes up the globs on the table as best as he can.

“Bucky,” he says, touching Bucky’s cheek gently. “Can you walk to the bed?”

Bucky blinks awake. “Yes. But you better buy me dinner first. I’m not that kind of guy.”

Steve snorts. “You’re a real character, you know that? Come on. Up you go.”

It takes a few tries, but he manages to get Bucky partially undressed and into bed before he passes out again. He tries to coax him awake to drink a glass of water, but the moment has passed. Bucky is sound asleep now and destined for a very unpleasant morning. Good thing they’ve both got the day free tomorrow.

* * *

Bucky blinks his eyes open to a painfully bright morning. Steve is posted up by the bed in one of the kitchen chairs. He’s wearing what must be at least three sweaters and his coat. Heat must have quit again. Just another reminder that no matter how hard he tries, he just can't seem to make his life work at all lately. The winter has been hard enough already with Steve's recurring colds, work drying up at the docks, and their arguments about the state of the world and what they can personally do about it.

"Hey, Bucky," Steve says.

"Why..." Bucky starts to ask, but his head hurts too much to even contemplate why he’s in bed with his clothes still on. Why Steve is sitting there like it’s a sickbed. All of a sudden he has to throw up and Steve's already there with a bucket. Bucky gags into it, but there’s not much in his belly. He spits a long string of saliva and pushes it away. It smells like maybe it’s already been used for this exact purpose, but he can’t remember anything.

“God, I’m so sorry,” he says.

“You said you had ‘nine’ last night," Steve says. “I don’t know what you meant, but it scared the shit out of me. I’ve never seen you that far gone."

Bucky closes his eyes, the room spinning around him. He must have fallen asleep or passed out again, because he's waking up to Steve holding out a glass of water. He tries to turn away, but Steve strokes his cheek gently.

"Come on, Buck. Just a little sip? Just for me?"

"Mmphf," Bucky manages, shivering and pulling the sheets tighter around his shoulders. He watches warily as Steve sighs and perches on the edge of the bed.

"I'm not angry at you, Bucky. As a matter of fact, I’m sorry we fought at all. I shouldn’t have brought up the war again. I just...I get impatient, sometimes. With myself. Wishing I could do more.”

This again. Bucky isn’t sure what else to do to convince Steve that he’s enough. That he’s more than enough.

“Stevie...” he starts, his heart hurting. “How many marches have you gone on? How many signs have you painted? How many pamphlets have you written? How many—”

“I meant for you,” Steve interrupts. “I talk about the war, but if I could just do more for you, for us, then I’d be happy. You shouldn’t have to work so much, Bucky.”

“You work just as much, Stevie. You should get paid for what you do just the same as I do.”

Steve shrugs. “I guess.”

“I wish I could do more for us, too, you know?” Bucky says quietly. “You’re not alone in that. Everyone we know is struggling. It’s only those robber barons sitting up on their piles of money who are doing okay. If anything, that proves that the problem is outside of us, that life isn’t hard because of some personal failure on our parts, but rather because of a collective failure on the part of society.”

“I love when you talk sexy to me,” Steve says, reaching out to run his fingers through Bucky's hair.

Bucky laughs, wincing as his hangover flares white-hot between his temples.

“Here,” Steve says, holding up the glass of water again.

He steels himself and takes a sip of the water. It tastes like whiskey. Why does water always do that when he's hungover? Steve's hand tightens in his hair, his face drawn.

"This isn’t like you, Buck. What happened?"

“I went dancing,” Bucky says, remembering flashes of music, red lips smiling up at him, sateen against his palm.

“Well, you obviously also got plastered at some point.”

“Apparently,” Bucky says. "I don’t remember—" his voice catches as very suddenly, with mounting horror, he does remember. A familiar voice, warm breath on his neck, the unwelcome press of a body against his in the hall just outside of the WC. The feel of his elbow connecting with a soft stomach. His fist connecting with a jaw. He looks at his knuckles, and yes, they are bruised.

“Donnie O’Neill,” he says, almost to himself.

Steve narrows his eyes. “What about him?”

Bucky swallows. “He found me at the dance. He wanted to...you know. Dance.”

Steve’s back goes rigid, his eyes blazing. “What?”

Bucky manages to sit up this time. “Nothing happened, Steve, I swear.”

Steve sputters, his face flushing bright red. “No! I’d never— Bucky, that’s not what I’m upset about. What did he do to you?”

The anger is funneling into Bucky now, late to arrive. “Nothing. I took care of him.”

“But what did he do?”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” Bucky’s head feels like it’s splitting open now.

Steve takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay.”

“My head hurts.”

Steve is obviously struggling not to go off again, but he finally manages to lift his hand and press it against Bucky’s forehead.

“Rest now, Buck. I’m going to fix you a cold compress.”

The next time Bucky wakes up, he feels all shaky. There’s a cold, damp cloth pressed against his forehead, and he pushes it off to the side, shuddering at the feel of it. Steve's perched over on his side of the bed, legs crossed, back propped up against the wall. He's cutting open an orange. The smell hangs in the air, enticing despite his pounding headache.

Steve's eyes are all red. Bucky wonders how he could have slept right through him crying, except he knows how much Steve hates crying in front of other people. He probably locked himself in the bathroom and pressed a towel to his face to drown out the sound.

"Here, Buck," Steve says, peeling the skin off of one glistening slice and handing it over.

"An orange?" Bucky asks. "You went out and bought an orange?"

"Just one slice, Buck. Just try it."

It's an appalling thought, but Bucky does it anyway, chewing mechanically, forcing the fruit down past a wave of nausea. It does taste good, in a detached way. Like his taste buds are coated in metal.

Steve's holding out a plain cracker now, and Bucky takes it obediently, popping it into his mouth and sucking on it until it dissolves.

"I can’t believe that bastard had the nerve to come on to you," Steve says, his voice heavy.

Bucky reaches out to put a hand on his knee, struck with a sudden realization.

“You know that’s probably why he always picked on us so bad.”

“Don’t,” Steve hisses. “Don’t say that or I might actually feel bad for him. I don’t want to feel bad for him. Fuck him. I hope he never gets a date.”

Bucky winces through another laugh, getting closer, until his face is pressed up against Steve's thigh.

“Nobody touches my guy without his permission,” Steve says. “Not even me.”

“You’re the bee’s knees,” Bucky says, warm and cozy despite the iron rod pounding through his head. “I’m sorry about last night, Stevie. I shouldn’t have stormed out. We coulda talked it out and avoided all this shit.”

Steve snorts. “Talked it out? With this stubborn little punk?” he asks, motioning at himself.

“Ow!” Bucky says, laughing. “Don’t make me laugh anymore while I have this damn headache.”

“Sorry, honey,” Steve says, rubbing the back of Bucky’s head gently. “And I’m sorry about last night, too. I, uh, I know you get worried sometimes, but the truth is I’d never want to go anywhere without you. Never.”

“That so?” Bucky asks, his voice rough. He doesn’t say how goddamn relieved he is to hear that.

“‘Course,” Steve says. “Till the end of the line and all that.”

“That’s my line, you big old sap,” Bucky says, grinning sideways up at him.

“Pot, kettle,” Steve replies, grinning back. “You did a good job fixing my boot, by the way. It doesn’t leak at all anymore. You remember doing that last night?”

“Mmm, barely.” The less he remembers about last night, the better, probably. He wraps an arm around Steve’s waist, squeezing him. “I just did the one?”

Steve huffs out a laugh. “That’s as far as you got.”

Bucky groans. “Jesus. It must have been a real hoot seeing me like that.”

“It sure was something.”

“I’ll fix the other one today,” he says, even though he knows Steve will say no, like he always does when it comes to things like this.

Much to his surprise, Steve gives him a soft smile, instead.

“That’d be great, teddy bear. I’d really appreciate it.”


	8. Benign, 1940

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve and Bucky celebrate a bittersweet birthday.
> 
> From the playlist: Stairway to the Stars – Ella Fitzgerald and the Chick Webb Orchestra, 1939

Bucky shifts on the bench seat, pressing his leg harder against Steve's. They're crammed on one side of a back corner booth, sequestered like love-struck teenagers, Bucky's arm slung over Steve's shoulders. They'd only started frequenting Tony's on Sands Street a few months ago. It’s the perfect place to get a bit liquored up and pretend for a while that the world isn’t falling headfirst into another war. And besides, Steve still hasn’t gotten over the novelty of being able to hang all over Bucky without anyone looking at them twice.

"Hey, Buck," Steve says, reaching down to run a heavy hand up and down Bucky's thigh, his body thrilling at the warmth against his palm, the flex of muscle.

Bucky lifts his whiskey neat and salutes him with it. "Heeeyyyyyy! Stevie!"

Steve laughs. "Are you really that drunk?"

"Nah. Can't I just be happy to be out with my best guy?"

"Sure." Steve leans over to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, letting his lips linger there. He lifts his vodka tonic, clicking it gently against Bucky's glass. "Sláinte, then."

"Oh no, he's completely benign. I mean, just utterly harmless." Charlie's voice cuts in over the music, and Steve turns to see him sidling up, a bright smear of lipstick on his mouth and a long cigarette holder clutched dramatically between his fingers. His other hand is wrapped snugly around the very trim waist of a handsome sailor who's making eyes at Bucky.

"I wouldn't say I'm harmless, Charlie boy," Bucky says, grinning at the sailor.

"Compared to Steve, you are," Charlie says, as the sailor's attention jumps over to Steve and stays there. "He's a vicious little man, Patrick," he adds. "I'd watch out for him."

"Hey!" Bucky gets to his feet. "Don't talk about Steve like that!"

It used to bother Steve, Bucky’s protective streak, but he’d learned to accept it these last couple of years. Maybe even enjoy it a little bit. Tonight, there’s no denying the hot thrill that flushes through him at the sight of Bucky all wound up on his behalf. He blames it on the vodka, on Bucky’s devastatingly good looks, and on the subtle pulse of desire permeating the air all around them.

"See what I mean?" Charlie asks, waving his cigarette in Bucky's face. "Completely. Harmless."

"Well, that's the thing," Steve says, pitching his voice lower than usual. Bucky turns to stare at him, mouth dropping open as Steve does his best to look feral and dangerous. "Buck might look like a teddy bear, but he's with me. So. He knows how to handle himself." He licks his lips slowly, his gaze sliding down Bucky's body and coming to rest unmistakably on, well. Bucky sits down abruptly.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Charlie says. "See what I'm sayin'?" He jabs his cigarette in Bucky's face again. "Complete teddy bear—”

“No one calls me that except for Steve,” Bucky cuts in sharply.

“—sleeping with completely vicious here,” Charlie continues, undeterred. “You think there's room for you? Well, let me tell you, there ain't. I already tried."

"You coulda just asked," Steve drawls, sliding his arm around Bucky's waist. "We like sharin', don't we, sugar?" He takes in the slow flush rising to Bucky’s cheeks, presses in closer.

"Yeah, yeah,” Bucky says. “It can't hurt to ask, at least. You never know, right, Stevie?" He doesn’t even look at the other men when he grabs Steve's hand and pulls him out of the booth. "We, uh, we gotta go."

Steve laughs at him and throws glances fit to set the world on fire at both Patrick and Charlie while they turn, transfixed, and watch Bucky drag him away.

Bucky stops when they clear the corner, pressing Steve against the wall by the coat check.

"What the fuck was that?" His voice is rough and smoky, stoking the fire deep in Steve’s belly.

"It’s your birthday," Steve says. “We could take them both home right now and have a hell of a night.”

“Seriously?” Bucky laughs. “You’re already enough of a handful on your own, pal.”

“Oh, am I?” Steve asks, pulling their hips together so Bucky can feel how much of a handful he is right about now.

Bucky pins him to the wall with a filthy kiss, and someone stumbles against them coming around the corner, nearly putting their cigarette out against Bucky’s arm.

“Hey! Watch it,” Steve says, barely managing to come up for air long enough to glare daggers.

“Sorry,” the stranger says.

Bucky mutters something that’s probably an apology in return, but Steve isn’t even paying attention to that anymore, too focused on how Bucky tastes, how he smells, how he feels underneath his hands.

“Get our coats,” he says, the words rolling hot off his tongue and full of promise.

* * *

They stumble home, Bucky clinging to Steve in a barely passable imitation of a friendly embrace, arm slung around his thin shoulders like he likes to do. He can still taste the whiskey on his tongue, his body loose with it, Steve warm against his side. There’s music filtering through some window overhead and he wishes they could dance down the middle of the street like in the movies.

“Can’t wait till we go dancing with the girls next weekend,” he says, the words spilling out before his brain has a chance to flash him a red flag.

Steve stiffens next to him, his good cheer melting down to that same somber expression he’s been wearing all week. Bucky had run into Connie at the grocer’s, and the idea for the double date had come to him when she’d whispered that she never got to see her girl Bonnie lately. He remembered how much of a terror her mother had been when they’d dated years ago. He can’t imagine what it must be like now that Connie’s getting past prime marrying age.

“I wish just the two of us could go out next weekend, Buck,” Steve says, shrugging out from under his arm. “It’s gonna be awkward with those dames.”

Bucky bites the inside of his lip, cursing himself for bringing it up. They’ve already argued about this three times. He wonders what he can say to avoid another fight.

“Connie’s a nice girl,” he says finally, feeling like a broken record. “She was so excited when I told her we’d stand in as their dates. You know how people talk.”

“I don’t give a shit about people,” Steve says, a bit too loud, a bit too drunk.

“Keep your voice down, honey. Please.”

Steve sighs, but he does stay quiet for the next thing he says, so quiet Bucky almost can’t hear him.

“I don’t like pretending, Bucky.”

Bucky spins on his heels, cutting Steve off, both of them just looking at each other for a long moment, their breaths misting the air between them. And then he pulls Steve into the deep shadow of an alley, kissing him hard, cold lips, cold hands, warm tongues.

“You never have to pretend,” he whispers. “Never. We’re just helping each other out, you know?”

They both freeze as someone walks by, face shadowed under the brim of a hat as they move quickly underneath the streetlights. Bucky can feel the moment Steve tenses, anger sparking in the air around them.

“We shouldn’t have to hide who we are,” Steve says. “I shouldn’t have to pretend to date some dame just so I can be seen going to the dance hall with you. And you shouldn’t have made plans for both of us without asking me first.”

Bucky sighs, the pleasant buzz the whiskey had given him simmering down to a dull, disappointing roar.

“Jesus Christ, Steve. Like I said before, those girls are up against stuff we never even have to think about. Connie’s ma was trying to get her married the second she turned eighteen. Hell, her ma will probably double down when she sees me come ‘round again, but it’s worth it to—”

“Is it?” Steve asks, his voice carrying loud and clear in the cold night. “What’s next? You gonna marry her? Tell me it’s for the good of all of us? Maybe make a coupla babies while you’re at it?”

“Keep your voice down,” Bucky says, his entire body ringing with alarm. He can’t help scanning the street to see if anyone is lingering nearby.

Steve shoves him away, breathing heavily. “I’ll talk as loud as I want.”

The blood is pounding in Bucky’s ears now, even as the cold March night seeps into his bones. Steve is such a stubborn asshole. An unreasonable bastard. Selfish and mean. Nothing’s ever good enough for Steve Rogers. Nothing ever will be.

He almost wants to give in, just for spite. Go and court Connie for real. Get married, like his ma had suggested. He could be sitting at home eating a home-made birthday cake right about now. He tries to imagine it and pushes too far into the anger, breaking through to the sadness underneath.

“Just forget I brought it up, all right?” he says. He’s shivering hard, though he can’t tell if it’s from the cold or what. “You don’t have to come along. I wanted you to, but you don’t have to.”

“Yeah, it ain’t that fucking easy,” Steve says. “I don’t go now, and I look like the rude asshole, when you’re the one who made plans without asking me.”

Bucky grits his teeth, resisting the urge to tell him that’s exactly what he is, anyway. It’s hard because he knows Steve’s right about one thing. He shoulda asked first, before making plans. But the rest of it, well, the rest of it is on Steve.

“Some birthday this turned out to be,” he says, the words bitter on his tongue.

“Shit,” Steve says, a puff of mist in the cold evening air. “I’m sorry. I got carried away.”

Bucky scoffs at that. “Obviously.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“You’ve never been sorry for a single thing in your goddamn life.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s not my fault the world’s like this.”

“I know.”

“I’m doing my best.”

“I know you are,” Steve whispers, dropping his head onto Bucky’s shoulder and holding onto him tightly. “I just hate that she got to kiss you first.”

He feels the fight leave him as the revelation sinks in. No wonder Steve had been so bent out of shape about the whole thing. It must have killed him to admit it, too.

“Aw, Stevie,” he says, pulling Steve closer. “Connie and I were just a coupla dumb, scared misfits trying to find our way. It didn’t mean anything.”

“I know it’s stupid, all right?” Steve says, lifting his head to look at him.

“It’s not stupid,” Bucky says. “I get it. Next time, I’ll ask you first.”

Steve kisses him, first rough, then sweet, like he can’t quite decide. Bucky kisses him back just as fiercely, until they’re both panting helplessly against each other’s mouths.

“I’m sorry,” Steve breathes, kissing him again. “You know I get impatient with the way things are. And it’s hard to keep on living like there isn’t some big old war raging in Europe—”

“Stevie.” Bucky feels all the warmth they’d built up between them give away again to the cold.

“—and it feels like we’re running out of time,” Steve finishes.

Bucky takes a deep breath. “I don’t wanna think about that tonight. Please.”

“It’s not just the war,” Steve says. “I’ve never wanted to share you with anyone else any more than I absolutely have to. If that makes me a bad person, then so be it.”

“Just shut up, will you?” Bucky says, his voice cracking. “You’re not a bad person. For God’s sake.”

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing! It’s fine. Let’s just go home, all right?”

“All right,” Steve says, looking contrite.

“What’s that face? Don’t do that face.”

“What face?” Steve asks, raising his eyebrows. “This is just my face.”

“Just my face,” Bucky mutters under his breath. “Jesus. What am I gonna do with you, Stevie, huh?”

And then he’s dragging Steve back out onto the street, the buildings funneling the winter wind right into their faces. Steve crowds in against his side, fingers cold in Bucky’s grip. They drop hands at the last possible moment, just before edging back into the flood of streetlights. Bucky wishes they never had to let go at all.


	9. Homecoming, 1942

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky goes away and Steve has to stay.
> 
> From the playlist: Always in My Heart – Glenn Miller, 1942

Bucky’s coming home today, and Steve has been frantically preparing all week, deep-cleaning the apartment, even managing to sweet-talk the grocer’s son into selling him a bouquet of flowers for practically nothing. He’s just finished showering and putting on his suit jacket and is trying to tear himself away from the cloudy, pock-marked mirror in the bathroom when he hears the familiar tread on the stairs.

He rushes out of the bathroom and Bucky is there, filling up the doorway. He’s in uniform. Of course he’s in uniform. He’s made sergeant, so he should definitely be flaunting it. His peaked cap is tilted back on his head, jaunty and cool. He looks fantastic. Strong. Handsome. Steve’s heart twists with envy. He wants to be proud of him. He wants to be happy to see him. Hell, he wants to feel scared of what might happen when Bucky’s gets his orders. But instead, it just hurts. They’d made a promise to each other, years ago, to stick together, but then Bucky went and enlisted.

He can’t blame him. It’s a goddamn world war. But that doesn’t change the fact that Bucky’s gone off to a place he can’t follow, and even though they’re standing in the same room again, Steve can still feel that distance between them.

Bucky takes his hat off and tosses it on the hook by the door.

“You look good, Stevie,” he says, his eyes shining. “Did you dress up all nice just for me?”

That’s all it takes for the world to make sense again. Steve rushes forward before he even thinks about it, springing into Bucky’s arms, both of them crashing back against the door.

“Bucky,” he says, too choked up to say anything else, his entire body going slack with relief. He hadn’t even realized how heavy he had been feeling until this moment.

Everything had been harder with Bucky gone. Bucky used to wake up at the same time every day, even on days off. Even when he’d been out late the night before. He went to work Monday through Friday and sometimes Saturday, and he always came home for dinner. Steve still hasn’t quite managed to find his own rhythm without him here. He hasn’t quite wanted to, since somewhere in the back of his mind he’s still determined to find a way to get into the Army. Bucky shouldn’t be fighting this fight alone.

“Steve,” Bucky says, sounding just as choked up. He’s carrying most of Steve’s weight, and Steve clings to him harder, not wanting to let go. He can feel the new hardness of Bucky’s body. He’d always been strong, but now his shoulders seem to go on forever in that uniform, his waist narrower, defined by that belt that Steve wants to unbuckle with his teeth. He wraps his legs around Bucky’s waist and feels Bucky laugh against his neck, a warm, tickling breath.

“My ma invited us over for dinner,” he says. “But I have a feeling we’re staying in for the night.”

“Damn right,” Steve says. As far as he’s concerned, they might as well spend Bucky’s entire leave in bed.

It’s a little complicated, because he knows he’s still got to share Bucky. Becca’s come up from Philadelphia to see him. Connie called Steve earlier in the week about all of them getting together. And the Stark Expo is happening in a couple of days. Bucky will probably want to go to that. He knows all that and tries to pretend none of it exists. He shifts in Bucky’s arms so he can look into his eyes, thighs tightening around his waist.

“This is new,” Bucky says, because there would have been a time Steve would never have let Bucky hold him like this. None of that seems to matter as much right now, though, and especially not his pride. He’ll let Bucky hold him any way he wants as long as he’s still here.

“Welcome home,” Steve says, kissing him softly.

Bucky sighs against his mouth, and then he’s grinning under Steve’s lips, hands shifting to Steve’s ass as he carries them towards their bed, the two mattresses already pushed together and waiting.

Steve has had a lot of time to himself to think up new things to do to Bucky, and he wants to do them all. But first, he rolls them both, flattening Bucky to the mattress, sliding down Bucky’s body to his waist, sinking his teeth into the belt, the taste of leather spilling across his tongue. He feels a thrill of satisfaction as Bucky’s chest heaves with a surprised breath, his eyes going dark and greedy.

“I’ve got a thing for men in uniforms,” Steve says, pitching his voice low. “Did you know that, Sergeant?”

“I’m kinda getting that feeling, yeah,” Bucky says, breathless.

Steve finishes with the belt, tossing it to the side, the buckle clanking loudly against the floor.

“What are your men gonna say when they see those teeth marks on your belt, huh?”

Bucky licks his lips, his eyes trained on Steve’s face. “They’ll say I’m a lucky man.”

Steve grins, hungry and wicked. He wasn’t kidding about the uniform thing, but it’s mostly the combination of Bucky and a uniform that does it for him. He reaches up and runs his fingers over the shiny buttons, tracing the shape of the top two before he lets his hand rest over Bucky’s heart.

“I’m the lucky one,” he says, crawling up until they’re face-to-face. He settles his knees to either side of Bucky’s waist, draping himself with his full weight. “Those fuckin’ bastards are lucky they got you.”

“Aw, the Army ain’t got nothing on you, Stevie,” Bucky says, his eyes clear and bright. “You’re the only one my heart will ever answer to. Don’t you forget it.”

Steve makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, and Bucky surges up, drawing him into an open-mouthed kiss, tongue teasing until Steve relents and deepens into it, slipping his fingers through Bucky’s wild, pomade-mussed hair and tugging gently. He moans as Bucky bites his lower lip savagely then traces the bite with his tongue.

After that, there is no grace to their disrobing, save for the reverence with which Steve finishes divesting Bucky of his uniform. Bucky’s hands have new callouses, his fingers scraping deliciously against Steve’s chest, his waist, his inner thighs. They spend so much time just touching each other, hands and mouths tracing the curve of muscles, the jut of bones, reclaiming and rediscovering, that when they begin to chase their pleasure, bodies wound up and aching with it, it crashes in around them like a soft wave, unraveling from the inside out, breaths scraping raw against the backs of their throats with the resounding feel of it.

Then after, when they’re tangled together and still, Bucky looks at his wristwatch.

“I should call my ma and let her know we’ll be by tomorrow, instead.”

“Mmmphf,” Steve says, half-sprawled across Bucky’s body, mouth pressed against his neck. It takes him a moment, but he finally makes himself shift off of him.

Bucky takes his face in his calloused hands, kissing him again and again and again. They get lost in each other for another hazy span of timelessness, until Bucky pulls away, laughing at the face Steve is making, and throws on just enough clothes to make his visit to the party line in the hall a respectable one.

* * *

Bucky stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, straightening his tie for the fifteenth time, trying to ignore that horrible feeling of dread he’d had in his stomach ever since he and Steve had gotten back from taking Becca to the soda shop. He’d knocked over the pile of mail stacked haphazardly at the edge of Steve’s desk and a pile of 4-F rejection slips had slid across the floor. Steve had apparently been forging his details at recruitment centers all over the place, still trying to get into the Army.

It had been sort of a relief, when Bucky got drafted. It had saved him the agony of trying to decide whether or not he should enlist and leave Steve behind. How could he have possibly reconciled his love and devotion to Steve with his sense of duty to _do something_ about what was happening in Europe?

They’d asked him a screening question when he’d answered his draft summons. _Do you like girls?_ He’d said yes, of course, because it was half true. But that one half-truth had felt so horrible in comparison to all his years of lying combined that he’d been tempted to tell the whole truth and damn the consequences.

Steve probably hasn’t gotten far enough in the recruitment process to even get the question. Bucky’s sure they’ve ruled him out on appearance alone every single time. He looks even thinner now than when he had left for training, and for all that Steve acts as if he has been fine these last few months, Bucky can read the truth in the lines of his body and the pallid cast of his face.

When he’d seen the rejection slips sliding out across the floor, he had barely been able to contain his emotions. They hadn’t fought about it, but the conversation had been unpleasant, anyway, and then Steve had said he needed some space. He’d gone off to see a movie, promising that he’d still show up for their double date with Connie and Bonnie.

To make things worse, shortly after that Bucky had gotten his orders to ship out to England bright and early tomorrow morning.

Just like that, his old life was over and the new one was beginning. Without Steve.

He can’t stomach the thought of pretending everything’s okay around the girls, so he decides to leave early and see if he can catch Steve outside the theater.

* * *

“Oh, Steve,” he mutters, in the brief moment that the bathroom at the Stark Expo is empty. He wets down his handkerchief at the sink and gently wipes the last of the blood from Steve’s mouth. It figures he’d get to the theater and find Steve fighting in the back alley, instead. Steve just scowls up at him, defiant, but Bucky can see the sadness in his eyes.

“Do you want to go home?” Bucky asks. “I can tell the girls we’ve had something come up.”

The door swings open and Bucky steps back smoothly, well-practiced in this game.

“You ready?” Steve asks, after an awkward pause. He speaks each word as if he’s enunciating for Broadway. “Don’t want to keep the girls waiting.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, feeling like the worst kind of fake. This isn’t what he’d imagined for tonight. He had wanted it to be fun.

“What did you tell them about me?” Steve asks, as they’re walking through the crowd toward where Connie and Bonnie are waiting for them.

“Only good things,” Bucky says, forcing a smile. He had thought about telling Connie about all the 4-F slips when they’d been on the phone earlier that day, but he’s never been the type to air out their dirty laundry and he’s not about to start now.

* * *

Bucky’s trying to enjoy Howard Stark’s flying car demonstration, but Bonnie and Steve are barely even bothering to pretend to like each other tonight, so his attention is mostly focused on scheming up some way to shift the mood. Only Connie seems impervious, drawn in by the excitement of the Expo and the thrill of seeing Stark unveil his newest invention.

Of course, Steve hightails it off to the recruitment center the first chance he gets, leaving Bucky to make his apologies to the girls and chase after him.

“Come on,” Bucky says, shoving Steve’s shoulder as he stands in front of a recruitment poster, the words ENLIST NOW plastered all across the bottom, a cut-out on the soldier’s face intended to reflect the face of the viewer. Steve is barely tall enough for it, only the top of his head and his eyes showing through. “You’re kinda missing the point of a double date. We’re taking the girls dancing.”

“You go ahead,” Steve says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’ll catch up with you.”

Bucky sighs, staring at the poster. “You’re really gonna do this again?”

“Well, it’s a fair,” Steve says, shrugging. “I’m gonna try my luck.”

“As who? Steve from Ohio? They’ll catch you. Or worse, they’ll actually take you.”

“I know you don’t think I can do this...” Steve begins.

“This isn’t a back alley, Steve,” Bucky says, the words familiar territory. He’s been saying them for years now, after all. “It’s war.”

“I know it’s a war,” Steve says, his voice quiet, like he’s embarrassed they’re hashing this all out here and now. Bucky’s glad for that. He should be embarrassed about it.

“Why are you so keen to fight?” he asks. “There’s so many important jobs.”

“What do you want me to do? Collect scrap metal in my little red wagon?”

“Yes!” Bucky says, exasperated. “Why not?”

“I’m not gonna sit in a factory, Bucky.”

“I don’t—”

“Bucky, come on. There are men laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less than them. That’s what you don’t understand. This isn’t about me.”

“Right,” Bucky says, his voice catching in his throat. “Because you’ve got nothing to prove.”

Steve stares at him, that stubborn bastard look on his face. Bucky knows how much he’s wanted this and it scares the shit out of him that he might finally get it, after all.

“Hey, Sarge!” Connie calls. “Are we going dancing?”

Bucky turns, holding out his hands, pitching his voice as if everything in the world is fine and dandy.

“Yes, we are.”

He turns back to Steve, wishing he would stop trying to ruin their last night together. But he knows there’s no point in waiting around. Steve’s going to get rejected again, and then he’ll just want to go home. And Bucky will stay out too late because he’s polite, and then in the morning...in the morning they’ll be out of time.

“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back,” he says. He means tonight, but it comes out all wrong. It sounds too final. It sounds like he means the war.

“How can I?” Steve asks. “You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

Bucky shakes his head, that magnetic pull that always draws them back together tugging at his chest. He steps forward and sweeps Steve into a hug, wishing with all his might that he could kiss him. He settles for hooking his chin over Steve’s shoulder, nearly over-tipping him with his body.

“You’re a punk.”

“Jerk,” Steve replies, patting his back, light and casual, in the way they always have to be out in public. “Be careful.”

It’s hard to turn away, but Bucky does it.

“Don’t win the war till I get there,” Steve adds.

Bucky turns back, his heart aching. There’s nothing else he can think to do but salute, so he does it with as much panache as he can muster. Steve smiles back at him, just the very corner of his mouth quirking up, and Bucky tears himself away.

“Come on, girls,” he says. “They’re playing our song.”

“What’s going on between you two?” Connie asks. “I figured you’d be all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tonight, but you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You couldn’t have been a little nicer to him?” Bucky asks Bonnie. She and Steve had never got along as well as he and Connie do, but then again, he and Connie go way back. And Bonnie is a bit of a hard egg to crack in the first place.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Connie says.

“Just leave it,” Bucky says.

“You know I can’t,” Connie says, serious all of a sudden. “I’m worried about you.”

Bucky shrugs, trying to keep his voice light. “It just hasn’t been the homecoming I expected, you know?”

“Has he gone to the recruitment center?” Bonnie asks, looking back over her shoulder. “In the middle of our date?”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says.

“He’s not coming back?” Connie asks.

“I doubt it,” Bucky says, miserable now. “Not with the way everything has gone today.”

“Oh, Bucky, I’m sorry,” Connie says. “He must be pretty upset.”

“He just wants to fight. And can you blame him?”

“Seems like a rotten thing to do to your best guy the night before he ships out,” Bonnie says.

Bucky frowns. He doesn’t want to admit that it feels that way to him, too. Connie puts a soothing hand on his arm.

“I called him every week that you were gone,” she says. “Did he tell you that? And I’ll keep calling him. But you know he’ll never tell me if anything’s wrong.”

“He doesn’t even tell me half the time.”

“You could probably ask Charlie to look in on him sometimes, too,” Bonnie says, and Bucky has to give her credit for only sounding half-grudging when she says it.

“That’s a good idea. Thanks.”

“This is our last night, too, you know,” Bonnie blurts out, and Connie looks down at the floor.

“You enlisted?” Bucky asks.

“The WAACs,” Bonnie says, lifting her chin.

“We oughta have our dance, then,” Bucky says, holding out his hand. “Steve will catch up to us, or he won’t.”

Bonnie shrugs. “Seems to me what you oughta do is go see to your man.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Go on,” Connie says gently, and then she’s pulling him into a fierce hug.

She kisses his cheek, and then Bonnie’s hugging him, too, and he’s surprised to see tears in her eyes when she pulls away.

“Steve really is a good one,” she says. “I think we’re just too much alike. I do hope he finds a way to get what he wants.”

“Me too,” Connie says softly.

“See you soon, Bucky, huh?” Bonnie says, putting on a brave smile.

“Yeah, Bonn,” Bucky says, smiling back. “See you soon.”


	10. One, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve finally gets his way.
> 
> From the playlist: Stella by Starlight – Victor Young, John Williams, Itzhak Perlman, 1944 
> 
> (Yeah, I cheated a bit with the date on this song, but it was too perfect to be a stickler about the small anachronism.)

Steve threads back through the trees, quiet as the night itself. It’s a stupid thing to do. The entire half of the 107th battalion is dug in around him in an expanse of Austrian forest, a momentary rest after their escape from the HYDRA weapons facility in Kreischberg. But he’d asked Bucky to meet him, a quick word over their meager dinner, and Bucky hadn’t said no. So he skirts the sentries and hopes no one makes a ruckus if they see him go.

He finds Bucky shivering in his tattered uniform, standing in the dappled shadows next to a tree and peeking up at the starry sky through a gap in the tree cover. He can only just make out the lines of Bucky’s face. It’s a waxing moon tonight, the scattered light of the stars barely lighting up the forest through the thick canopy.

It shouldn’t be this awkward, but it is. Steve feels big and unwieldy in his new body, towering over Bucky like some kind of monster. He wants to reach out, but they haven’t touched since Bucky left Brooklyn. There hasn’t been time. It’s just been his hand on Bucky’s face when he found him strapped down in Armin Zola’s lab, then a few casual touches here and there. There’s a small part of him that’s scared he might hurt Bucky by accident if he gets too carried away.

“What did they do to you?” he asks, thinking of the bruises on Bucky’s face, the half-healed injuries he’d glimpsed through the tears in his clothing. He thinks of how delirious Bucky had been, muttering his service number to himself as he laid there on the table. 32557038. It’s a draft number, not an enlistment number.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Bucky says.

“Bucky...” Steve says, with that sinking feeling he gets whenever he’s reminded that Bucky’s changed, too. He has more edges to him now — the way he walks like he’s waiting to kill before being killed, the melody in his voice filed down to something blunt and direct.

“I can’t believe you, Steve,” Bucky says, motioning to Steve’s body. “What is this? Why would you do this?”

“I had to.”

“You wanted to.”

“You were drafted,” Steve says. “You didn’t enlist.”

Bucky blinks up at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me think you’d enlisted?”

“Why does it matter?”

There’s a pause.

“I made a promise to you, Bucky. I’m with you till the end—”

“Stop,” Bucky says, narrowing his eyes. “This is the real world, Steve. Things don’t work out that neat and pretty.”

“I don’t care,” Steve says quietly. “I’m here, anyway. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He hears Bucky take a breath, recognizes the quick little inhale that comes before one of his zinging retorts.

“You crazy sonuvabitch,” he says, and that’s definitely a new thing, too. Bucky never used to call him names like that. Steve’s breath rushes out with a startled whoosh as Bucky leans into him, strands of hair tickling Steve’s cheek. It’s the strangest sensation in the world, the way their bodies line up now.

“God, I missed you,” Steve says, wrapping his arms carefully around Bucky’s back, breathing in his scent, his enhanced senses making him dizzy with it. “You don’t even know.”

“Oh, I know,” Bucky replies. “What do you think I’ve been doing over here all this time? Making daisy chains?”

“Let’s not fight. I didn’t mean anything except that I missed you. So much.”

Bucky is silent against him for a moment, and then he raises his head.

“Me, too.”

“Oh, Bucky—”

“I hate that you’re here. It’s hard enough watching my own back and the motherfuckers in my unit, now I have to watch out for you, too.”

“No,” Steve says, and he doesn’t give a shit anymore about being careful. He grabs Bucky’s hand and presses it flat against his chest, flexing hard. “We’ll watch each other’s backs, like always. And this time I have way more to work with.”

He feels the puff of warm air on his chin as Bucky breathes out, shifting closer. Then his other hand is sliding up Steve’s arm, squeezing his bicep.

“Sure beats a rusty fuckin’ flare gun,” he murmurs.

Steve finds himself battling against the tears in his eyes. He hadn’t let himself think about how scared he had been, wondering if Bucky would still want him after the effects of the serum. He breathes in.

“Can I kiss you, Bucky?” he asks, his voice barely getting past the lump in his throat.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and then he’s drawing Steve down into a kiss, savage and desperate.

* * *

Bucky feels like he’s getting used to it, seeing Steve like he is now. He’d marched by his side back into camp and had the satisfaction of seeing Phillips’ goddamn mouth drop open at the sight of the rest of the 107th battalion trailing in behind them. Steve had told him a little about how he’d been rejected by the Colonel. How he had ended up on the USO circuit. He doesn’t much like talking about it, though, so Bucky doesn’t pry. Besides, the USO is the only reason Steve made it to Italy in the first place, so Bucky has to be grateful for that. Even if it means he’ll never be able to protect Steve from the war now.

When Stevie was safely tucked away back home, he could pretend. Now, there is no pretending, and there’s no holding Steve back, either. It’s as if he’d always been destined for this new body, and now that he’s gotten used to it, he moves with deadly and efficient grace. It leaves Bucky staring in awe more often than not, makes him ache with want every second of every day, that part of him that he’d been afraid got extinguished forever reigniting with a vengeance.

It hadn’t even taken Steve that long to work out how to use the shield Stark had given him, and Bucky has witnessed his broken fingers repairing themselves enough times now to believe everything Steve told him about his regenerative powers. Then again, the jury is out on whether or not he’d be able to spring back from a hole in the head. Or his heart. Bucky tries not to think about that too much and just focuses on the day-to-day stuff. Keeping his hodgepodge new team of misfits well-fed and well-supplied, watching Steve’s six as his Sergeant, and keeping him happy as his best guy whenever they can steal a moment.

They’re out in the field more and more these days, shutting down the HYDRA bases Steve had seen on the map in Zola’s lab. It had been a bit of an adjustment at first, but the team quickly eased into the usual kind of bullshit they all employed to keep the horror at bay. Tonight, they’re at it especially bad, Dum Dum Dugan needling Bucky endlessly about all the dames he’s got waiting for him back at home. Steve gets a pass because everyone thinks he’s with Peggy. It had been a mutually beneficial arrangement made between the three of them, and Bucky’s glad for it, for Steve’s sake. But it does nothing to ease the pressure on him.

Bucky twirls his best knife in his hand, glaring at Dum Dum. They’d risked a small fire, and they're all crowded around it, getting more on each other's nerves than usual. Steve is still figuring these guys out, but Bucky was in the cages with them, back when they were tangled up in HYDRA’s tentacles. He knows how far he can go with them, and more importantly, how far they think they can go with him.

"The way I figure, it's got to be about twenty," Dum Dum says, picking up where he left off.

Morita snorts. "You said thirteen last time."

"I'll bet it's twenty." Jones gives Bucky a wink.

"It's none of your goddamn business," Bucky says, by now a rote response. This shouldn't be pissing him off this much. It's just part of the stupid game they play to pass the time. Brag about their girls with ever-increasing levels of exaggeration as to their merits. Except he'd made the mistake of being cagey about it from the start, so the game got to be about making him talk more than anything else.

"Well, if there's anyone who could handle twenty girls it'd be Barnes, wouldn't you say?" Falsworth drawls out. Steve raises his eyebrows, his mouth quirking to the side.

Bucky flips the knife in his hand so the firelight flashes on the blade just so, catching Falsworth's eye, but all he gets is a dry smile.

Dum Dum eyes Bucky for a second before plowing on. "What's her name, then?"

That's a new tactic. It's surprising coming from Dum Dum, who's usually more interested in talking quantity over quality. He wonders if Morita put him up to it. Bucky throws the knife, burying it halfway in the dirt by Dum Dum's boots.

"Tir chanceux!" Dernier says, lifting his flask.

"Lucky shot," Jones translates. "Je dirais que c'est un bon coup. C'est de Barnes que nous parlons, non?"

Dernier shrugs.

Bucky squints over at Jones. "What did you just say about me?"

"I said it was a good shot, not a lucky shot."

"Damn right," Bucky replied.

"Stella," Steve says. "Her name's Stella."

It gets so quiet that you can hear the hiss of the wet logs in the heart of the fire. Bucky's got his eyes locked on Steve. One by one, everyone turns to stare at him.

"Holy shit," Dum Dum says. "Holy shit."

Bucky retrieves his knife from the dirt.

"That's it?" Jones asks.

"Yeah," Steve says. "Believe it or not, he's just got the one."

"Holy shit," Dum Dum says again, and Falsworth lets out a quiet snort.

"Finally, the truth," Morita says. "That wasn't so bad, was it, Barnes?"

"Parlez-nous de la belle Stella," Dernier says.

"Tell us—" Jones starts translating.

"Yeah, I can pretty much figure that one out," Bucky says, glaring at everyone. He takes a deep breath, working through how he's gonna swing this. He can't risk describing Steve...except, yes he can. Bucky settles back into storytelling mode, and by now everyone's learned to recognize this. Even Falsworth leans forward, though it's a movement that is only perceptible to the trained eye.

"Picture Scarlett O'Hara, right?" Bucky begins, grinning at the collective gasp he gets in response. "Not in looks. In attitude."

"Oh," Dum Dum says.

"Damn," Morita says.

Steve's eyes narrow.

Bucky chuckles to himself as he digs up the perfect memory.

"Yeah, one time she got into a fist fight at school. You shoulda seen the teacher's face. This tiny girl going up against the biggest goon in the lunch room."

"Good God," Falsworth says. Steve looks like he's dying to say something.

"Yeah, there's blood all over the front of her dress but she's still chewing the guy out the whole time until I take pity on Miss Hartford and drag Stella down to the nurse's office. They were gonna expel her but I sweet-talked the principal into giving her another chance."

"That's not—" Steve starts, then cuts himself off.

"Were you there, Cap?" Jones asks. "Did you see the fight?"

Steve clears his throat. "I was out sick that day."

"I think he's making all this shit up," Morita says. "You know how Barnes is good at spinning yarns."

"I'm not making it up, I swear!" Bucky holds up both hands, knife still clutched in his left, so everyone's watching the blade instead of his face. He winks at Steve.

"What does she look like, then?" Dum Dum asks. "If she ain't Scarlett O'Hara—"

"Oh, Stella's a blond," Bucky says. "Real sweet-looking, too, till she opens her mouth and you realize she swears like a sailor. Short and skinny, but filled out where it counts, you know what I mean?"

Steve inhales and starts coughing, like maybe he swallowed a bug.

Dernier nods solemnly.

"Not to mention she's got a cute little crooked nose from all that fighting," Bucky adds, looking off into the distance.

"Wait a minute, it wasn't just that one time?" Morita asks.

"Hell no, she was always mouthing off to one asshole or another and getting into fights in alleys."

"You're fuckin' kidding," Dum Dum breathes.

"I gotta call bullshit, Bucky," Steve says. "You're making her sound all reckless. She didn't get into that many fights that I can remember."

"Oh yeah?" Bucky asks."Were you there with her for every single fight? Saving her ass when she got in over her head?"

Steve looks down at the ground.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

There's an uncomfortable silence as everyone tries to process this image.

"Une jeune fille?" Dernier asks.

"A young girl?" Jones repeats. "Fighting in alleyways?"

"Have any of you even been to Brooklyn?" Bucky asks.

Falsworth looks horrified at the thought.

"Non," Dernier says.

"Brooklyn's pretty far from Fresno," Morita says.

Dum Dum shrugs. "I'm from Boston, pal."

"Well, you know I'm from New York, right?" Jones says. "And far as I can remember, I've never seen a girl like that in Brooklyn."

Bucky laughs. "Yeah. What can I say? Stella's pretty fuckin' special."

Steve just smiles.


	11. Freight Car, 1945

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve and Bucky remember.
> 
> From the playlist: You’ll Never Walk Alone – Frank Sinatra with the Ken Lane Singers Orchestra, 1945
> 
> (Posting two for the price of one to finish out part 1 of the series, since the last chapter is so short!)

It’s cold, and Steve knows he should try to get some sleep, but his body is thrumming with nerves. Tomorrow is the mission to capture Dr. Arnim Zola. It’s no small thing to take a zip wire down onto a moving train, even if he is Captain America now and not just some punk kid from Brooklyn. Besides, Bucky and Jones are going with him, so that makes it feel all the more fraught. It’s one thing if it’s just him doing something exceedingly dangerous. It’s an entire other ballgame when he has to drag regular people into it. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to either of them.

Bucky and Jones are on first watch, and he can hear the nearly imperceptible sound of trampled down snow creaking under their feet as they shift from foot to foot. Tendrils of cold are winding themselves all along his limbs, and even with his super soldier body, he can feel it trying to get at his core, to zap out the heat of his life force. The dread hovers closer. He’s usually better about ignoring the specter of death that hangs over them every moment of every day, but tonight, there’s something about the sharpness of the cold, the impassive white faces of the mountains, that leave him feeling like he’s turned down a dead end street.

He burrows deeper into his bivouac, tensing at the sound of footsteps drawing near, the rustle of fabric as someone crouches down by his head. He peeks out through the opening and meets Bucky’s eyes, silver blue in the eerie brightness of the night, moonlight reflecting off snow.

Bucky doesn’t speak. The others are too damn close, and since Dugan’s started snoring, it’s hard to tell if the rest are asleep yet.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mutters, turning away to whisper over his shoulder. “Jones, give him a kick, will ya? He’s gonna bring the Germans down on our heads.”

A few seconds later, Steve hears a thump and Dugan grumbling.

“It’s this goddamn cold,” he’s saying. “Stops up my nose.”

“It’s that goddamn moonshine you drank too much of,” Bucky hisses. “Sleep on your side or your belly, for God’s sake, and spare us the noise.”

“Aye, Sarge.” Steve hears a snicker from Morita’s direction, Dugan shifts around for a minute, and then blessed silence again.

Bucky turns back, the wrinkles on his forehead easing as he meets Steve’s eyes, just breathing with him. Bucky’s eyes have always been expressive, but it is only here, in the middle of war, that Steve has really learned how to read them. It’s also where Bucky has learned how to shutter them down, giving only what he wants to give. Steve has missed the weight of his naked glance, full of affection and, for the moment, just a little bit reproachful.

 _Stop worrying,_ Bucky’s expression is saying. _We fight side-by-side. Always._

Steve would give anything for one more night of sleeping in Bucky’s arms. He’d taken so much of their life before for granted — the easy privacy of their apartment, the way he could reach out and touch Bucky anytime he wanted.

Bucky clicks his tongue, his eyes flashing.

 _Stop it,_ he’s saying. _Stop._ Then, _I love you._

 _I love you, too,_ Steve thinks, hoping Bucky can read it in his eyes.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle at that, and Steve knows he got the message. He bites the inside of his lip. He’s got to get a hold of himself. He’s got to get a hold of himself.

“Chin up, Rogers,” Bucky whispers, so low that no one could have possibly heard it except for him.

Steve takes a deep breath and nods, drinking in as much of Bucky’s gaze while he still can.

Bucky gets to one knee, quick and graceful, and presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead, warm, chapped lips against his skin for too short a moment before they’re gone. Steve feels all of the love and trust Bucky holds for him pouring through that moment, reminding him of his own strength. It’s like taking a shot of whiskey on an empty stomach, the way it shoots straight to the core of him and tingles out, warming from the inside out.

Bucky gives him an appraising look, his eyes flooding with satisfaction, and then he’s standing up and moving back to his sentry post. Steve closes his eyes, riding out the terrible urge to slide out of his bivouac and into Bucky’s arms, their lips coming together to share the same breath.

But no. That’s what he’ll do when they get back to base, after the mission. He’ll ask Peggy to find them a quiet nook, and then he’ll take Bucky apart, slowly, deliberately, and he won’t take a single goddamn moment for granted.

He takes a deep breath, still feeling the ghost of Bucky’s lips on his skin, and burrows back down, trying to hold in as much of that precious heat as he can.

* * *

Bucky stands at the edge of the outcrop, looking down at the snowy train tracks below. It had taken the better part of the previous day to coordinate the installation of the zip wire, and now their time is drawing near. The Schnellzug should be along any minute, though they still don’t know for sure if Zola is on it. Jones is crouched behind them, listening in on HYDRA dispatch.

“So, we take a freight car,” Bucky says. “Create a diversion while Jonesy sneaks up to the engine room.”

“That’s the plan,” Steve says, absent-minded. He’s staring down along the zip wire, too.

Bucky takes a breath, willing himself to get a handle on his nerves. It had been a long trek up into these mountains. He thought he knew what it meant to feel cold and miserable, but this experience had elevated his understanding of the condition. He’s looking forward to getting back to base and forgetting about cold toes for a few days. Other than last night, when he’d risked a short moment with Steve during his sentry shift, they haven’t had any time alone together. He can feel the lack like a sore tooth, a constant ache underlying everything else he does.

“Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?” he asks. He and Steve had almost gotten caught necking in a dark corner of the Pavilion of Fun earlier that same day. They had been so young. Wild and reckless in their devotion.

“Yeah, and I threw up?” Steve asks, because he’s never missed a chance to give Bucky a hard time about that.

After the fiasco with the Cyclone, Bucky had felt so bad he’d gone and won Steve a teddy bear. He remembers the carnie who ran the booth catching his eye, a little secret grin curling at the corner of his mouth. Steve had been so embarrassed when Bucky had given him the bear, right there in front of everyone, playing it off as a big old joke. He’d started calling Bucky “teddy bear” as payback, but in the end, the name had turned out sweet.

Those were good years — the teddy bear years.

“This isn’t payback, is it?” he asks.

Steve looks over at him, and Bucky knows he’s remembering all of it.

“Now why would I do that?” he says, his voice gentle. He makes a big show of inspecting the zip wire above him, the tips of his ears going just the slightest shade of pink.

“We were right,” Jones says, drawing Bucky back into the present. “Dr. Zola’s on the train.”

They both turn to look at him, Steve shifting into Captain America mode seamlessly.

“HYDRA dispatcher gave him permission to open up the throttle,” Jones continues. “Wherever he’s going, they must need him bad.”

Steve puts on his cowl, and they turn back to the edge of the cliff.

“Let’s get going because they’re moving like the devil,” Falsworth says, binoculars in hand.

“We only got about a ten-second window,” Steve yells, to Bucky and Jones. “You miss that window, we’re bugs on a windshield.”

“Mind the gap,” Falsworth says, in his dry way, as Dernier hands Bucky his equipment.

“Better get moving, bugs,” Dum Dum adds.

Bucky slings the trolley over the wire, grasping the handles firmly, the metal cold against his palms. He watches Steve setting up just ahead of him, the shield slung on his back, the white star in the center staring right back at him.

“Maintenant!” Dernier yells, and Steve jumps, sliding away from them, and ten, nine, eight...

“Maintenant!” Dernier yells again, and Bucky goes, his stomach clenching with the sudden drop, the air biting painfully at his nose, the tips of his ears, his fingers. He ignores the cold and the sense of dread that’s ramping up inside of him and keeps his eyes trained on the white star.


	12. Outro, 1945

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the playlist: Till the End of Time – Perry Como, 1945

Bucky picked up the shield. It was still warm where Steve had been holding it. That goddamn Nazi machine had just blown a hole in the side of the train and Steve was lying off to the side. They were in one of the freight cars, drawing Zola's attention while Jonesy headed in for the ambush. Steve was completely exposed, and Bucky just wanted to make sure he was okay. But there was no time. The machine was powering up again, blue light glowing ominously. Bucky raised his gun and managed three shots, then he was airborne, ice crystals cutting into his skin. He had no idea what happened to the shield, just that he was holding onto a rickety railing as the wind buffeted him around like a rag doll.

"Bucky!" Steve was climbing out to him. "Hang on! Grab my hand!"

The rail was slipping loose, and even though it felt like this moment had been coming for him since he’d been captured at the battle at Azzano, Bucky tried to reach out. He had to try. For Steve.

The metal broke free. For a horrible moment Bucky almost felt like he was flying, right there alongside the train, then his stomach was doing flips as the train car flew up and away. Somewhere nearby, someone was screaming. His life was blurring past, filtered through snow. 

_Bucky walks in on his parents kissing in the kitchen, and Ma's leg is crooked up like she's some starlet in a movie._

_He's giving his sister Becca a kiss on the cheek and she's smiling, her mortarboard pinned to her perfect Victory roll, the tassel tickling his face when he hugs her again._

_And Stevie. Stevie's just a blur of color and sound and warmth. Stevie with a black eye. Naked as the day he was born and wrapped up in bedsheets. Hacking up a lung in the middle of winter. A blur of fists and blond hair in some dark alleyway. Tall and broad-shouldered in that star-spangled getup. Clinging to the side of a moving train, one hand outstretched, snowflakes swirling between them._

Something hit him hard, knocking the air clean out of him. For a second, he felt Steve right there, all stretched out on top of him, his face so close that they were sharing the same breath. He wanted to lift his head and close that distance, but he couldn't move. He opened his mouth. Tried to say his name. A wall of pain bloomed through him, bubbling up through his belly then pouring sideways, flattening him down against the snow. Everything went dark.

He dreamed of cold.

Cushioned in snow drift, his memories wove together with Steve’s, running along the lines that connected them heart-to-heart.

In another place and another time, they could have been lost to each other, Bucky stolen away and broken down into a different form, memories drawn from his mind, words re-purposed and bent out of shape, burning pathways of submission into his brain.

_Longing_

_Rusted_

_Seventeen_

_Daybreak_

_Furnace_

_Nine_

_Benign_

_Homecoming_

_One_

_Freight Car_

Safe in the frozen embrace of the mountains, those memories belonged only to them, the span of two lives, the full measure of two hearts beating together.

Their hearts were stars and the stars were beacons and the beacons called to the only one who could bring them home.


End file.
